


Expectations

by cyparissus



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Coming Out, F/F, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Friendship, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Platonic Relationships, background Tucker/Wash, dealing with your shit and learning how to love before it's too late: the fic, emotional honesty, with apologies to york
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-22
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2019-10-14 06:23:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 25,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17503316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyparissus/pseuds/cyparissus
Summary: “Oh my God! Oh my GOD! Simmons and Carolina! Caboose, run! We have to tell everyone right now! It’s nerd and jock role reversal! Go go go!” Tucker’s voice comes echoing towards them, and they both turn to look at each other in horror.“Oh, shit,” they both say in unison.





	1. It's Fine for Boys to Play With Dolls

**Author's Note:**

> I'd be lying if I said this wasn't partially inspired by [Locus's World-Famous Garbage Taste In Men](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13832103/chapters/31812753) by hylian-reptile, as well as the album Expectations by Hayley Kiyoko (as you can see by the title) but mostly I just really wanted to write about Simmons dealing with his internalized homophobia & coming out to his friends (kind of) separate from his feelings for Grif. I also just wanted to write Simmons and Carolina being friends.
> 
> This is set pre-15, a month or so after they moved into the moon bases.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Above all do not lie to yourself. The man who lies to himself and listens to his own lies comes to such a pass that he cannot distinguish the truth within him or around him and so loses all respect for himself and for others. And, having no respect, he ceases to love._  
>  -Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov

It’s loud in the base. Bases. Both bases.

Simmons hadn’t tracked down the details, because all he knew was that he was quietly reading in the little nook between his and Grif’s rooms, his feet up on the little ottoman, and then the base was filled with, well, bass, thumping and startling him right out of his chair. He makes a squeaking noise that he’s really glad nobody is around to hear, grits his teeth and picks up his book, setting it neatly on the table before storming upstairs. 

Sure enough, Tucker has the huge  _ outside only  _ speakers set up in the common room, four of them all pointing in different directions and all blasting some music that’s so loud it’s impossible to actually hear the music part of it and not just the noise. 

Simmons starts yelling but, predictably, nobody hears him or nobody cares. The noise sets his nerves on edge, too close to reminding him of some uncomfortable memories of before his parents got divorced. He taps Tucker on the shoulder until Tucker sends him a flat, annoyed look that is  _ way  _ too much like the looks the jock assholes would give him immediately before giving him a swirly, so Simmons gives up on trying to get him to stop. 

Then he turns, and Grif is  _ dancing _ , and it’s not even like, a sexy dance, but it is  _ a dance  _ and it’s more than anything  _ Simmons  _ can do with his hips, and he hates his stupid brain so he’s thinking about  _ that thing he’s not supposed to be thinking about  _ and then his stupid, terrible, awful brain rapidly switches gears and starts wailing  _ ABORT ABORT ABORT  _ and Simmons high-tails it out of there. 

He ends up on the hill just before the beach, under the tree, sitting in the damp grass and hating it and wishing that he wasn’t too scared to go back into the base and get his book.

He hears someone approaching behind him and takes a moment to consider whether he should turn. He figures there’s about a 70% chance it’s Grif coming to take a nap in his favorite napping spot, 15% chance it’s Tucker coming to beat up Simmons and take his lunch money, 10% chance it’s Washington attempting to have a heart to heart with him because he still feels guilty ( _ again _ ), and a 5% chance it’s Sarge, Donut or Caboose, coming to tell him something inane and stupid that doesn’t matter. He turns to tell Grif that the grass is too wet to nap in, but the words die in his throat because what he sees is so improbable that he hadn’t even included it in his statistical analysis.

Carolina is trudging up the hill towards him, in full armor, very obviously heading towards him and it’s not at all just a coincidence that she wanted to take a walk out here, at this late hour, up to this specific hill. Simmons stares at her in open shock, watching as she walks up to him, turns, and then sits down in the grass right next to him. An appropriate amount of space is between them, a  _ friendly  _ amount of space. Simmons is still gaping at her.

He can count on one hand the number of times he’s talked to Carolina, alone, without anyone else there, and all of them were on Chorus, when he had to tell someone about how they were running low on supplies and Washington was busy. Carolina is like his white whale, he’d thought once, and it still applies. She’s a mixture of the two most terrifying adjectives a person can be: female, and jock. She’s like a mega-jock. A mega-female, mega-jock, and Simmons has never spoken to her and been relaxed at the same time.

“Oh, come on, Simmons, I don’t bite,” she says, and Simmons would be running away screaming if she wasn’t smiling at him while she spoke.

“You do,” he protests, his voice reverent, “You do bite. I have seen you bite. It hurts extremely much.” Carolina laughs. Simmons is not going to stop staring at her in shock any time soon.

“That’s fair, I guess,” she says around a grin, and then elbows him. He squeaks. She has a very strong elbow.

“You went running out of there pretty quick, huh?” she says, giving him a carefully measured look that sends Simmons’ social anxiety alarm bells ringing. He’s not sure exactly how long he’d been staring at Grif before he ran away, and he hadn’t checked who else was in the room aside from Grif and Tucker. The rest of them were probably there, and they probably all saw him stare at Grif, red-faced and gobsmacked for ten minutes. His face heats up. 

Simmons doesn’t answer and Carolina doesn’t press, but she keeps looking at him in that careful way that makes him feel like she knows all of his secrets. She sighs lightly and looks away, out toward the ocean. Simmons feels bizarrely like he just failed some kind of test.

“You know, Simmons, I think out of everyone here you remind me the most of myself,” Carolina says, and Simmons startles, jerking away from her a little. She laughs at the look on his face. 

“I kind of meant that as a compliment,” she says, leaning back on her hands and smiling with her eyebrows raised. Simmons finally tears his eyes away, wringing his hands.

“I--I know, I just-- I mean, that’s-- that’s very kind of you to say. I don’t-- I don’t know if it’s true, but yeah-- very kind,” Simmons says, turning red and squirming like he would very much like to run away if only he wasn’t terrified of Carolina turning him into lunch meat. Carolina chuckles again. 

“I mean, listen, I’ll be candid about myself:” she starts, ticking off personality traits on her fingers, “Perfectionist, afraid to relax, base my self worth on the approval of my superiors, daddy issues up to here,” Carolina pauses, turning her head to regard Simmons critically, and Simmons’ eyes go wide again, “Not to mention the internalized homophobia.”

Simmons feels like every cell in his body freezes, and his robotic parts all seize up, and he has never been so naked and vulnerable in his life. Simmons opens his mouth to respond but Carolina is already waving her hands.

“I’m not, like, trying to call you out or anything, or make you talk about anything you don’t want to talk about. I’m just… I see myself in you, that’s all,” Carolina says, her eyes soft and kind and Simmons relaxes a fraction, finally understanding what she’s trying to tell him. 

“Oh,” says Simmons, nodding a little.

“I mean, maybe if your dad was some kind of evil supervillain and you were good at tests you might have ended up in Freelancer, too,” she says, shrugging, and Simmons makes a disgusted face that makes her laugh again.

“My dad was kind of evil… I don’t know about the supervillain part though,” Simmons says, and it just slips out and he watches in astonishment as Carolina actually hears those words he’d said, that personal and embarrassing information that he can’t take back. Carolina, bless her, just nods. 

They fall into a companionable silence, the words  _ internalized homophobia _ rattling around in Simmons’ brain. 

“I used to play with dolls when I was little,” Simmons says suddenly, the words falling out of his mouth like someone else is pulling a string on his back. He knows his face is burning but he goes on anyway, looking off into the distance, “I don’t even remember it myself, I must have been… Four, maybe? My mom thought it was funny, I’d picked this doll out at the toy store--a girl’s doll--I think it was a scientist Barbie. My dad hated it, I mean  _ hated  _ it. He took it from me and made me watch while he burned it, and then gave me a GI Joe.” Simmons pauses, thinking about that for a moment, the vague memory of horror, “I don’t really remember that happening but he would always, always tell people about it in front of me. Usually his army buddies or coworkers, people who’d come over for a dinner party. He’d always call me a sissy and say he’d saved me from a life of shame, make me say thank you and pretend like I thought it was funny. Like I was grateful.” He pulls his knees up to his chest and hugs them, resting his cheek on his knee and looking away from Carolina.

“I’m sorry,” says Carolina after a long moment, her voice quiet and full of emotion and Simmons turns his head to look at her. She’s not looking at him, looking off into the distance, and it takes Simmons a moment to realize she’s not taking the blame for something shitty his dad had done, she just wishes it hadn’t happened at all. Then she turns back to look at him with a small smile, her eyes shining, “It’s fine for boys to play with dolls.” She says that like it’s nothing, like of course it’s true and like she’s not the first person in Simmons’ whole goddamn miserable life to say something like that to him. 

“You know… I don’t think anyone’s ever said that to me before,” Simmons says, looking down at his knees.

“Yeah, I kinda figured. You don’t really seem like the kind of guy who would have turned up at a GSA meeting in high school,” Carolina says, grinning, and Simmons actually laughs and nods. Then he looks at Carolina critically, still smiling.

“I bet you played  _ volleyball _ in high school,” he says and Carolina’s eyebrows go way up. 

“How did you know  _ that _ ?” she asks, sounding suspicious and less amused than she had been. Simmons chuckles.

“Just a guess. Like, competitive, terrifying, and a lesbian? Totally a volleyball player,” Simmons says, nodding like he knows shit about anything. Carolina laughs again, sounding a little relieved that Simmons hasn’t actually been digging around in her past. 

“I guess you got me there,” she says, and they both get quiet again. It’s… nice, just sitting here with her, the knowledge that they have something in common that has caused them both a large amount of grief. 

“Knowing you’re not alone… It helps, doesn’t it?” Simmons says quietly, not looking at Carolina, then he hears shuffling and she’s throwing her arm around his shoulders, pulling him tightly into her side. He stiffens at first, and then remembers this is Carolina, who’d just confessed to him that she’s as gay as he is, and he relaxes. He wonders in a small corner of his mind if the whole reason he’d always been so scared of girls was because it was too much pressure to do the right thing and be straight enough and it was easier to just avoid contact altogether. 

Simmons sighs, relaxing into the embrace and tilting his head onto Carolina’s shoulder. 

It’s really nice.

“Does anyone else know? About you?” Simmons says very quietly, and he’s close enough to hear Carolina swallow.

“There were… rumors, back in Freelancer, so I think Wash might know. But I haven’t… I haven’t told anyone,” she says, sighing, and somehow Simmons feels disappointed. Not that he thinks she needs to tell people, just that he might be closer to telling the people he lives with he’s gay if he had solid proof they wouldn’t desert him for it.

“Church knew,” she says finally, her voice small and hurt, and Simmons nods against her shoulder. 

Simmons opens his mouth to say something else but before he can there’s a not-so-distant shriek. They freeze.

“Oh my God! Oh my GOD! Simmons and Carolina! Caboose, run! We have to tell everyone right now! It’s nerd and jock role reversal! Go go go!” Tucker’s voice comes echoing towards them, and they both turn to look at each other in horror.

  
“Oh,  _ shit, _ ” they both say in unison.


	2. Treason and Romantic Nonsense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simmons gets confronted by Sarge and Grif.
> 
> Carolina gets confronted by Wash.

Simmons manages to hide in his room from everyone for thirteen hours and forty-five minutes. He finally emerges at 8:00 AM, slinking down the hallway out of his armor for the best chance at stealth. Even back on Blood Gulch Sarge hadn’t tended to be up early, and Grif of course was never awake at normal human hours. He should have known better than to try and logic his way around Sarge.

“Well, well, well,” says a voice just when Simmons thinks he’s safe, when he’s about to step into the pantry for some very quiet oatmeal. He jumps out of his skin at the voice and whirls around to see Sarge sitting at the table, in full armor, his shotgun trained on Simmons. Simmons automatically holds his hands up.

“Sarge, I know that Tucker has been spreading some crazy rumor but it’s not--”

“Shut up dirtbag!” Sarge snaps and Simmons gapes at him, “I expected this kind of behavior from Grif, but you? Fraternizing with the enemy?” Sarge shakes his head, sounding disappointed, and Simmons hates the little part of him that shrieks in despair.

“I wasn’t--! Okay, first of all, the Blues aren’t our enemies anymore, and second of all-- I wasn’t fraternizing! We were  _ talking _ ! Talking like regular normal human beings talk! There was nothing anywhere  _ close _ to fraternization going on!” Simmons gestures violently with his arms, letting loose the arguments that had been swirling around his head all night long. Sarge tilts his helmet in a way that radiates suspicion. 

“That’s just what a lying, traitorous dirtbag traitor would say!” Sarge crows after a moment of silence and Simmons groans, “I have a very reliable source that confirms there was  _ intimate touching _ going on! That’s fraternization!” 

Simmons feels his face going red at that description of what he and Carolina had been doing, more because it was fairly accurate than because it  _ wasn’t _ . 

“It wasn’t intimate! We were just talking! There may have been a-- _ one _ \--completely platonic hug involved, but it was just a conversation!” Simmons protests, overly aware of how hot his ears feel. Sarge gives him another suspicious look.

“What were you talking about?” Sarge asks, and Simmons blinks at him, floored by that question.

“I… what?” he says, feeling the blood that had been rushing to his head draining away as he realizes he’s reached a fork in the road. If he tells the truth about what they’d been talking about, Sarge would probably believe him and the rest of the Reds and Blues would stop thinking he and Carolina had been having sex outside. Telling the truth would also be outing himself and Carolina without her permission, and Simmons knows he isn’t ready, and knows that Carolina wouldn’t forgive him for that, but the alternative seems just as bad. Sarge being disappointed in him, Tucker thinking he’s some kind of cool sex-haver, Wash probably coming after him with a knife, and Grif…

“What were you talking about? If it was just a simple conversation then I’m sure you’ll remember what you were talking about!” Sarge proclaims, and Simmons has to give it to him for backing him into a corner, here. Sarge is assuming that there wasn’t actually any talking going on, and Simmons doubts he’ll just accept that there was talking going on, only it was private talking and he can’t tell the details. Simmons sighs, dragging both his hands down his face.

“I can’t say,” he says quietly, and Sarge lets out a whoop of triumph.

“Of course not! That’s because there wasn’t any talking going on at all! My source--”

“You mean  _ Tucker _ ?” 

“--claims that you were caught in a passionate embrace!”

“A passionate embrace? With who, his calculator?” 

The bottom of Simmons’ stomach drops out at the voice, and he can’t quite believe it when he turns to see a sleepy Grif standing in the doorway, wearing just shorts and a t-shirt and scratching his belly and wearing this lazy grin that would make Simmons’ stomach flip under normal circumstances. This,  _ this _ is what he’d most wanted to avoid, the guy who he’d had alien-magic-induced sex with two months ago and still hadn’t talked about, the guy who he’d had a weirdly intense and intimate friendship with for ten years, the guy who’d saved his life and looked out for him countless times and in countless ways.

“Whoa, now  _ that’s _ a good face,” Grif says, his eyebrows going up as he meets Simmons’ terrified stare, “There’s something really cool going on, huh?” 

“Grif!” Sarge says, slamming his hands and shotgun on the table and making Simmons jump, “This is a code maroon emergency! All hands on deck! This is not a drill!” 

“Code maroon?” Grif says, all mock horror and outrage, “No! Simmons is embracing something passionately  _ and  _ it’s a code maroon? The world is ending!” Grif throws his hands up in the air and mimes yelling at the ceiling for a moment before all emotion falls off his face and he makes a beeline for the fridge. Sarge heaves a huge, disappointed sigh.

“Even in these trying times you still manage to be the primary disappointment, Grif! I find your reliability inspiring!” Sarge says, glaring at Simmons. Grif turns away from the open fridge to give Sarge a weird look.

“You’re… welcome?” he says, peeling open a mozzarella stick and then shooting an amused look at Simmons, “What did you do, Simmons? I think you broke Sarge.”

“I didn’t do anything!” Simmons shrieks, the words bursting out of him with all the frustrated anxiety he’s currently feeling. Grif blinks at him, his eyebrows shooting up again, “Everyone’s jumping to conclusions about something  _ really stupid  _ that I  _ can’t talk about  _ because it’s  _ private  _ and God forbid I have one personal conversation with one person without  _ fucking _ them!”

Simmons had, apparently, underestimated how upset he was over this whole thing. The amused look on Grif’s face falters, and he cuts his glance between Sarge and Simmons.

“I’m pretty sure I don’t actually want to know, but… What the fuck happened?” Grif asks, sounding hesitant. Simmons opens his mouth to reply but Sarge cuts him off, slamming his hands down on the table again.

“Fraternization! Changing the status quo! Romantic nonsense!  _ Treason! _ ” Sarge hollers, and Grif blinks at him.

“Treason?” he echoes dully, then starts, “Wait, romantic nonsense?  _ Simmons _ doing  _ romantic nonsense _ ?” Grif’s voice takes on an edge that is mostly mocking but not completely mocking and Simmons  _ hates  _ it. 

“It wasn’t romantic! I just-- I was just talking to Carolina! And she hugged me! It was a platonic, friendly hug!” Simmons hisses, glancing wildly from Sarge’s disappointment to Grif’s bewilderment. Grif is staring at him with his mouth hanging open, like Simmons couldn’t have done anything more shocking than exchange affection with the only girl they know. When he thinks about it that way, Simmons doesn’t really blame them. Out of context, it is very out of character. 

“Wait wait wait, so…” Grif says, closing his eyes briefly and making a slow down motion with his hands, “So when Tucker was going on and on last night about how you and Carolina were an  _ item _ now, he wasn’t lying?” Simmons makes a groaning noise of pure frustration, putting his hands in his hair and tugging. 

“Okay,  _ technically, _ from  _ Tucker’s  _ point of view, he wasn’t lying,” Simmons admits with a sigh, “But! He completely misread the situation! And he was like, a hundred feet away! I bet Carolina is beating him up right now for spreading malicious lies about her!” 

They all sit there in silence for a moment while they let that impressive self-burn sink in, Sarge and Grif both looking at Simmons with matching pitying looks.

“Simmons... “ Grif says, giving him a considering look, “You  _ do  _ realize that you’re fighting tooth and nail to make sure nobody thinks you’re interested in a girl?”

The question stuns Simmons, because that’s exactly what he’s doing and when he thinks about it, he doesn’t really  _ care _ . He  _ doesn’t  _ like girls, and part of why he finds this so upsetting is because he thinks of Carolina like  _ family _ , and the idea of ever being romantic with her is sickening.

“Yes I know that Grif!” Simmons shrieks finally, “I know what I’m doing here!” He does not. “I just want people to know the truth!” He does not. 

“Traitor!” Sarge crows again, and Grif gives him a look.

“Wait, is he a traitor because Carolina’s a Blue, or because Carolina’s a girl?” Grif asks lightly, and Simmons makes a choked noise. Sarge turns very slowly to look at Grif. 

“Grif--” he starts, but then Grif cuts him off.

“Wait, is Carolina a Blue?” he asks, looking confused, “I mean, her armor is blue--”

“Cyan,” mutters Simmons under his breath.

“--and she stole Church for a while, and she lives over there and not over here, but like, is she  _ actually  _ on Blue team? Oh man, should we be recruiting Carolina?” 

It very slowly dawns on Simmons what Grif is doing. At first, he’s still indignant and frustrated, but then he realizes that Sarge’s full attention is on Grif, his shotgun on the table with one hand on it protectively. Simmons heart clenches in his chest and he grits his teeth, hating even more the need for secrecy and this stupid situation. He is  _ so sick  _ of keeping this stupid,  _ stupid  _ secret, and even as he opens his mouth to let it spill out, filled with bravado, he hesitates. He pictures Sarge running after him with his shotgun, pictures Grif’s face twisting with disgust. His teeth click together when he shuts his mouth.

Here’s Grif, doing something kind and selfless for an agitated and neurotic Simmons, and he can’t even open his damn mouth and tell him why. The shame and relief smash down on him in equal parts, because he’s yet again put off something he should have dealt with a long time ago. 

When Simmons tunes back into the conversation, Grif and Sarge are arguing agitatedly about whether or not Carolina is a Blue, and Simmons sighs and moves past them to the fridge, to get the food he never got earlier. He doesn’t know what to do about this situation, doesn’t know what to say to fix it, doesn’t know what  _ Carolina  _ would want him to say, and there’s a part of him--a big part, if he’s honest--that just wants to tell the  _ truth _ . There’s a big part of him that is just so sick of the lying and the shame and the pretending and he just… He wants to be  _ himself _ . No matter who that is. He wants his friends to know him, the  _ real  _ him, instead of this weird mish-mash of traits he thinks he should be and has stitched together into a pathetic mask. He wants…

Simmons looks up from his bowl of cereal and finds that Sarge has left and Grif is sitting at the table, chin perched on one hand and staring right at him. Simmons shrinks back a little, irrationally afraid Grif that had been following his thoughts.

“So,” Grif says, and Simmons’ stomach drops away, all his previous thoughts about being truthful and brave flying out the window in the face of Grif’s smirk, “Carolina, huh? I didn’t think big, bossy, and could-crush-your-skull-with-her-thighs was your type, but…” Grif trails off, looking Simmons up and down with a distinctly amused look that makes Simmons blush in spite of himself, “Actually, I can totally believe that’s your type.” 

“That’s not my type!” Simmons objects immediately, and then blushes harder, “I mean, I don’t have a type! I mean! Me and Carolina aren’t going out!” Simmons exclaims and then heaves a mighty sigh and drops into the chair across from Grif, dropping his head down onto the table. 

“You know,” Grif starts, then reaches out and pokes Simmons on the top of his head, making him jump, “You would sound a lot more believable if you weren’t so nervous and cagey about it.” Simmons groans.

“I can’t help it,” he whines, looking up and giving Grif a plaintive look, “Nervous and cagey is my natural state! And this is a delicate situation! A delicate situation which, due to my natural levels of anxiety and social ineptitude, I am unequipped to deal with, and am therefore nervous and cagey.” Simmons thumps his head on the table, listening to Grif snort and snicker.

“Guess I can’t argue with that,” Grif says, and Simmons can hear the shuffle of his clothing as he shrugs. After a quiet moment, Simmons rolls his head so he can peer up at Grif with one eye. Grif is still staring at him, a half-smile on his face.

“Do you believe me?” he asks, his voice quiet and miserable and Grif blinks at him and then glances away, looking uncomfortable.

“Dude, this whole thing is like twelve separate levels of impossible. Like, you,  _ you _ , hanging out alone with Carolina? When has that  _ ever  _ happened? When have you ever interacted with any girl in a purposefully romantic or sexy way? And, like, if you  _ were  _ just having a heart-to-heart with Carolina, like,  _ what _ ? What on Earth could you have a heart-to-heart with Carolina about?” Grif rambles, looking pointedly away from Simmons, and Simmons doesn’t know whether to be insulted by how incredulous Grif is or flattered by how well Grif knows him. Grif strokes his chin, looking thoughtful momentarily.

“Actually, I think the most impossible thing about it is you willingly having sex  _ outside,  _ in the  _ dirt _ ,” Grif says, and Simmons considers that. Grif starts to laugh at whatever face he makes at that thought. 

“See what I mean? So, yeah, I guess I believe you. It’s the least impossible explanation.” Grif says with a nod, still looking at Simmons with an oddly considering look on his face, “You don’t, um, have to tell me what you were talking about, if you were thinking about doing that.” Simmons sighs, turning his face back towards the table. He wants to tell Grif so badly, but at the same time he  _ can’t _ , and not just because it would involve sharing a secret that wasn’t his to tell. 

“It was just…” Simmons starts, searching desperately for something he  _ can  _ share with Grif, “She was just… looking out for me. She told me something… personal… about herself.” Simmons shifts and fidgets, cagey and nervous, and can’t quite manage to meet Grif’s eyes.

“Oh,” says Grif, sounding a little distant and confused, “Okay.”

Silence descends on the room, and after a while Simmons chances a glance at Grif’s expression. He’s frowning now, looking away and drumming his fingers on the table. The word  _ jealous _ rattles around Simmons’ head until he pushes it away. What could Grif be jealous about? He’d already said he believed him and Carolina weren’t a thing. 

 

~

 

“So,” Wash says, sliding onto the stool next to the one Carolina was perched on, and Carolina groans, putting her head down and folding her arms over her head.

“Don’t start with me, Wash,” Carolina growls, the intimidating note of her growl a little muffled by her arms. Wash is badly hiding a grin behind his coffee mug. 

“What? Aren’t congratulations in order?” Wash says, feigning innocence and Carolina mentally counts up how long it would take her to get to the nearest lethal weapon. Three, maybe five seconds.

“No. No congratulations are in order,” Carolina grits out, “You  _ know  _ that no congratulations are in order, you’re just being a  _ moron _ .” Wash stops pretending that he doesn’t think this is hilarious and laughs. He elbows her gently and she growls again. 

“Aww, c’mon, ‘Lina. You know Tucker’s just having some fun. He’s not serious about you and Simmons.” Carolina tries to growl again but it comes out more like a whine, “It’s not that bad! Simmons is a good guy! And Tucker’s got this whole theory about Grif and Simmons anyways so it’s not like he really thinks--”

“Stop, stop.” Carolina snaps, feeling irritation crawl up her spine at Wash’s reassurances, his assumption that she’s upset because the rumor features Simmons, “That’s not what this is about.” Wash blinks at her. She doesn’t elaborate. 

“Okay,” Wash says slowly, “So you’re not angry that Tucker’s spreading a rumor that you and Simmons got caught being intimate on the beach.”

“No, I’m not,” she says, seething. Wash makes a high-pitched ‘hmm’ noise, nodding into his coffee cup. Carolina sighs. She’s really  _ not  _ angry about that. Simmons is… nice. A little neurotic, got some shit to deal with, sure, but she’ll be damned if that doesn’t apply to every single one of them here. If she were so inclined, she wouldn’t be offended by the implication. Well. He  _ was  _ a huge nerd. But still, not completely offended. Carolina had nothing against nerds. Wash  _ was  _ practically her little brother. 

But, no, she wasn’t angry about the rumor. She was angry at herself, for still being too damn chickenshit to just tell the truth and dispel the rumor. She  _ hated  _ it, feeling weak and impotent, feeling paralyzed with fear. But this wasn’t a problem she could muscle her way out of. She couldn’t point her guns at a bunch of terrible military don’t-ask-don’t-tell assholes and  _ force  _ them not to be homophobic. 

Well, actually, she could probably do that. The Reds and Blues still were all terrified of her, and she hadn’t exactly been working on making them any less terrified. 

Except there was Simmons. Simmons, who she’d pegged as gay within moments of meeting him based on little more than gut intuition, except this intuition was based on seeing something in Simmons that she was acutely familiar with seeing in herself. Simmons had been living with these guys for  _ years _ , and had been sitting on this thing for all that time. Part of her thought that the rest of them  _ did  _ know, because he wasn’t exactly subtle about his big crush on Grif, but there was a big difference between saying something out loud and having the people around you hear it and accept it, and other people seeing something you were trying to keep hidden and deciding it was too much trouble to bring up. 

Simmons couldn’t intimidate anyone into keeping their shitty opinions to themselves. No doubt that was why he’d never admitted it in all this time, too afraid of what his friends--his  _ family _ \--might say. Too afraid of being left behind, of being exiled because you were different. Hell, Carolina had kept her own secret during Freelancer for basically the same reason, only with the added pressure that anyone knowing this thing about her might negatively affect her rankings, might make her  _ lose _ before she could even try. 

Only here, now, with Wash the only Freelancer and all the others… Carolina wasn’t afraid of them, but they were the closest thing to family she’d  _ ever  _ had and losing them over something like this would… it would hurt. It would hurt a hell of a lot. 

“Um, Boss?” Wash says slowly, and Carolina tunes back into her surroundings. She hears a creak and looks down at her coffee mug, where there’s a fracture in the ceramic handle where she’s been gripping too hard. She sighs and loosens her grip, sets the cup on the table and leaves it there. 

“What were you saying about not being pissed?” Wash asks, his eyebrows high as he looks pointedly at Carolina’s mug.

“I didn’t say I  _ wasn’t  _ pissed, just that I wasn’t pissed  _ about that _ ,” she points out, putting her palms down on the table and taking a deep breath. 

“So… what  _ are _ you pissed about?” Wash asks, sounding confused. Carolina swallows. She imagines opening her mouth, saying  _ I’m pissed because I want to tell everyone that me and Simmons were talking about how we’re both gay but I’m too scared to go through with it _ . 

Yeah, like that would ever happen. 

She sighs.

“I don’t know.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all the positive feedback! It's been a LONG time since I took on a chaptered project on a scale like this (like I wanna say eight years give or take) and I really appreciate the support!!


	3. We Need To Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carolina is very bad at apologizing.  
> Simmons has an idea.

Two days later Carolina comes stomping into the base during Family Dinner, in armor but missing her helmet, and stands silently at the foot of the table. Her hands are clenched at her sides and she looks  _ furious _ . 

Simmons freezes with a spoonful of split pea soup halfway to his mouth, his eyes going wide as terror strikes him. Everyone else at the table seems to still as well, all of them glancing between Simmons and Carolina with varying levels of trepidation. Or, in Tucker’s case, eagerness.

“We need to talk,” she says, staring right at Simmons, and his spoon clatters back into his bowl. He shrinks back in his chair, cheeks flushing as everyone’s attention zips over to him. 

“Uh!” Simmons says, his voice high-pitched and very nearly a whimper, “Okay! Sure! Like, right now? Right here?” 

Carolina’s gaze flickers over the other people at the table, and her expression twists. Simmons wonders if she thought this course of action through at all, or even noticed the other people at the table before she opened her mouth. 

“...No. Not right here,” she says eventually, and looks like she’s trying very hard not to say the next part, but there’s no way around it, “Privately.” 

“Ooooooh!” Tucker howls, slamming his hands down on the table, “You heard her, Simmons! Your girl needs some  _ private _ attention!” Simmons looks at him in terror, and Carolina with fury. 

“Tucker, shut the fuck up,” says someone, and it takes Simmons’ brain way too long to accept who spoke. He glances at Carolina, but it wasn’t her, and Wash is staring across the table with wide eyes. Simmons glances at the rest of the people at the table before he finally looks at Grif, sitting next to him and staring at Tucker. He doesn’t look angry, he looks like he usually does when he tells someone to shut the fuck up, namely bored and vaguely annoyed. Simmons is sure that if his heart hadn’t already been beating out of his chest it would have started thumping at the look on Grif’s face. 

He doesn’t know what to think about that, or he  _ does  _ know what to think but there are too many possibilities and not enough time to think about them and figure out which is right, so he clears his throat and stands up so fast that his chair falls over.

“Um, right! Let’s go, Carolina!” he says, and without thinking he rushes over to her, takes her wrist and pulls her away from the table. It’s not until he yanks her into his room and locks the door behind them that he realizes what he just did and drops her wrist and retreats across the room as fast as he can.

“Sorry!” he squeals, holding his hands up above his head, “Sorry for grabbing you I wasn’t thinking please don’t kill me!”

Carolina is standing just inside the door, breathing carefully, the arm that Simmons had grabbed still held out slightly. She’s looking down at the ground and not speaking, and Simmons feels like he’s watching a bomb count down from three. 

“Um, Carolina?” He ventures, pressing his back to the wall. She finally looks up, her eyes dark and… miserable?

“Simmons,” she says, all the tension leaves her body, and Simmons doesn’t feel any less terrified, “I’m sorry. This whole mess is my fault. I know I need to… fix it, I _know_ and I _will_ I just…” Simmons blinks. 

“Wait,” he says after a moment, his hands dropping limply to his sides, “This is your idea of an apology? Christ, Carolina, why don’t you just kiss me in front of everyone next time and then break my neck?” He blushes when he realizes what he just said, and Carolina gives him a bewildered look. “If you were planning on convincing people that we  _ aren’t  _ involved, maybe next time don’t call me out in front of everyone for a private talk!”

Carolina’s expression twists, her nose scrunching up like she smelled something bad. Simmons is more and more sure that she hadn't thought any further or deeper than _find Simmons, say sorry_. 

“Look, Carolina,” Simmons starts, sighing and scrubbing a hand through his hair, “I appreciate the thought, but… It’s not your fault. I don’t think there  _ is  _ a fault here, unless you count Tucker being as gossipy as a wine mom. And as far as fixing it…” Simmons looks away, thinking. 

“I mean, I don’t know about Blue Team, but on Red Team  _ no  _ means  _ yes  _ and  _ yes  _ means  _ shoot my face off with your shotgun, Sarge _ . I don’t think straightening this out will be as simple as asking them to take us at our word. Unless, uh, well, I don’t know about you but I’ve been safely in the closet since I was about 13 and it’s really comfortable in here and I don’t really want to leave just to make my friends stop thinking I’m dating, like, the strongest, coolest and most powerful woman in the universe.” Simmons swallows, blushing faintly and taking a step back, because he wasn’t sure if Carolina would take that as a compliment or not. After a moment she breaks into a grin and laughs, shaking her head. 

“Yeah, you’re totally out of your league,” she jokes, and Simmons nods emphatically. She thinks about it for a second and then sighs, “I guess you have a point. I  _ do  _ want to straighten this out, and I  _ do  _ want to tell people about… me, but…” She trails off, momentarily distracted by the terror that accompanies that thought.

“It’s easier to want to do it than to actually think about doing it, huh,” Simmons says, his shoulders slumping as he thinks about it, too. 

“Okay,” she says, straightening up with defiance, even if it is defiance against her own cowardice, “We’ll give it a month. I’m not saying we pretend to be in a relationship,” she says quickly, holding her hands up, “I’m just saying we don’t immediately convince the rest of the guys that we’re not dating. For thirty days. Then we come clean about… everything.” Simmons nods distractedly for a moment, then strokes his chin like he’s deep in thought.

“Wait… What if we  _ did  _ pretend to be in a relationship?” Simmons says, gravely, like he’s presenting a great and wonderful idea. Carolina gives him a flat look.

“Look, Simmons, I know you’re very attached to your whole sitcom episode life you’ve got here, and that’s great and hilarious and not pathetic, but I am not playing out some weird fake relationship thing that ends with me kissing you in front of everyone until your boyfriend spontaneously combusts and admits he’s in love with you.” Simmons gapes at her, his mouth and opening and closing, fish-like.

“Grif isn’t my boyfriend!” he shrieks finally, and Carolina feels her eyebrows go up while she snorts and dissolves into laughter, “I-- I--” Simmons flounders for a moment longer and then slumps, defeated, scrubbing his hands through his hair. 

“Okay. Fair. I-- I would also like to avoid that situation. Also, uh, not what I was suggesting. I meant, um, as an excuse? Like, we try it for a month--and by try it I mean spend time together away from the others doing explicitly platonic things or just each hiding individually and not together but pretending we are together--uh. So we try it and then we come back, like, well we tried it and surprise we’re both gay! Which solves the problem of the people we know who will never believe it when we say we  _ aren’t _ involved and also excuses me--uh, us? But mostly me--from keeping this under wraps for so long because, uh, I didn’t know, because I’d never been with a girl which is technically--um.” 

Simmons falls silent, and Carolina watches him critically to make sure he hasn’t just swallowed his tongue or suffered a heart attack. 

“You just keep going, huh,” Carolina says, faintly amused, and Simmons squeaks. Honestly, she’s charmed by Simmons. He’s sweet when he’s not trying so hard to be competent, “It’s not a bad idea. Actually, it sounds pretty stupid, so it’ll probably work like a charm. All right. So we just keep up what we’ve been doing, deny it but spend time together, Tucker will spread rumors like wildfire, then we publicly break up by admitting to all our friends that we’re both gay and only just realized it because we tried, uh, being straight and it didn’t work.” Carolina takes a deep breath in through her nose and then blows it out through her mouth, shaking her head a little, “I honestly cannot believe what my life has become.” Simmons actually laughs a little, smiling at her for the first time without an ounce of nerves or apprehension. Carolina thinks  _ oh _ with a note of surprise. So that’s what he looks like when he isn’t looking uncomfortable.

“I mean, yeah, but it’s more fun this way,” Simmons says, his impish grin making him look about ten years younger, so he looks like his actual age rather than his usual mid-fifties-angry-uptight-businessman. 

“I guess,” she says, smirking at him, then holds out her hand, “Let’s shake on it, gay-fake-boyfriend.” Simmons laughs again, stepping forward to shake her hand.

“You have a very strong handshake, gay-fake-girlfriend.” 

“I should hope so, I can bench more than you weigh.”

“Yeah, good energy, say something like that in front of Tucker and we’re all set.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this chapter a couple days early as an apology for it being shorter than the others. Stay tuned, though, because the next one's a doozy!


	4. We Are Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is nothing alluring about the way Grif eats Oreos.
> 
> This chapter contains vague spoilers for Star Trek: Deep Space Nine. My apologies to anyone who doesn't know anything about that show for how long Grif and Simmons talk about it.

Simmons and Carolina are still talking and laughing an hour later when Simmons remembers he’d promised Grif they’d watch some  _ Deep Space Nine  _ later. They meander towards the rec room of Red Base, Simmons animatedly describing the premise of  _ Star Trek: Deep Space Nine _ , putting particular emphasis on Kira, because she seems like exactly the kind of character Carolina would love. She’s nodding politely, and seems to approve of the strong, rough and self-possessed Kira Nerys, but Simmons can tell her eyes are glazing over. You’re either born with the Star Trek gene or you’re not, unfortunately, and Simmons has seen that glazed look far too many times. 

“Well… Go watch your show. It sounds like fun,” she says, just outside the rec room, then lowers her voice so only Simmons can hear, “Thanks for not, like, throwing me under the bus about this whole thing.” Simmons gives her a look and then laughs a little.

“Yeah. You too. It’s pretty sad that that’s the baseline here, huh?” he says with a kind of sad half-smile, and Carolina nods and returns the smile. 

“See you,” she says, reaching up to put her hand on Simmons’ shoulder and squeeze briefly before turning and walking away. Simmons watches her go for a beat before turning towards the rec room, which he realizes is wide open and he can even see Grif’s feet from where he is, dangling over the arm of the couch. 

Abruptly, Simmons thinks about what Grif had said at dinner.  _ Tucker, shut the fuck up _ . 

He hesitates in the doorway, eyes drawn to the slice of Grif he can see, his brain whirling for a moment. Grif hadn’t sounded angry at the time, but Simmons knows Grif well enough to know that that doesn’t mean much. Grif is an expert at hiding his feelings, but even that is still a crap shoot because sometimes he doesn’t feel anything at all. Or at least, that’s what he claims.

Simmons walks into the rec room just so he stops thinking in circles, nodding at Grif.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

Simmons can’t quite explain the huge relief that washes over him as Grif nods at him back and echoes his greeting. He sinks down onto the couch next to Grif, who is sprawled over three-quarters of it, a half-empty package of Oreos next to his ear. 

“So, are we rewatching the James Bond episode or should we just start at the beginning?” Simmons asks, and Grif cranes his neck to look at him. Simmons looks at his upside-down face, trying to read his unreadable expression. Grif glances back at the doorway Simmons had just came through.

“So, are you glossing over the fact you were just whispering in the hallway with Carolina?” Grif asks, his smirk looking like a frown from Simmons’ vantage point. 

“Uhhhhhhhh,” Simmons says, his eyes going wide as he looks around the room desperately for something, anything, “Yes? It’s not a big deal? We’re friends?” Grif barks out a laugh that sounds surprisingly genuine.

“You should have said you were having sex, that would have been more believable,” Grif says, grinning, and Simmons makes an affronted squeaky noise.

“We are friends! And we didn’t have sex!” Simmons exclaims, pushing himself back into the opposite arm of the couch as Grif makes a graceless attempt at sitting up, one hand going right into the package of Oreos as he pushes himself up and around. Unsurprisingly, when Grif sits up and faces Simmons, he has three of the cookies in his hand and starts twisting the top off the first one. Grif gives Simmons a flat look while he licks the filling from the Oreo.

“C’mon, Simmons, you? Admitting to having a friend? You still won’t admit that  _ I’m _ your friend.” Grif says, leaning back against the arm of the couch and giving the Oreos the lion’s share of his attention. Simmons is not staring at Grif’s mouth, not at all, he just suddenly feels the need to look intently at the ceiling fan so he doesn’t look at anything else. For no particular reason.

“You’re not my friend, I hate you,” Simmons says dutifully, glances back just long enough to catch Grif rolling his eyes. He kind of does hate Grif in this moment, because instead of eating the two cookie halves he’d just licked clean, he goes for a fresh one and twists that apart.

“Exactly my point, and we spend like 90% of our time in each other’s presence,” Grif says around a mouthful of Oreo créme filling. Double stuf. 

“Are you, like, sponsored by Nabisco or something? Where do you keep  _ getting  _ those, we’re on a secret moon base that nobody knows about a billion light-years away from Earth.” Simmons sinks into the familiar, his eyes darting between the ceiling fan and Grif’s mouth. He will not make this another weird and awkward conversation with Grif about the girl he’s not-dating but now real-fake-dating, kind of, anyways, this ceiling fan is amazingly interesting and there is not anything at all alluring about the way Grif eats Oreos. 

“The military agreed to convert my stipend to a cookie-based payment system,” Grif says, then his hand shoots out to grab Simmons’ shoulder, making him jump, “Wait! Can I get sponsored by Nabisco? Fuck, we’re like, famous, right? Could I do a commercial for Oreos and get them to give me a lifetime supply? Is that something I could do? Simmons, get my datapad, you’re helping me draft a business letter.” Simmons, in spite of himself, brightens briefly before he gets a tight lid on that reaction and gives Grif a look.

“What about Star Trek?” he says dubiously, going for the perfect balance of genuine disappointment and fake sarcasm, just enough genuine disappointment to let Grif know that Simmons was looking forward to watching Star Trek with him, and just enough fake sarcasm to keep the emotional honesty between them low enough that Grif won’t veer back to making Simmons talk about Carolina and any hang ups he may or may not have about calling Grif his friend. Grif looks at him for a long moment and Simmons suddenly has the sense that he knows exactly the game he’s playing, has calculated every move with perfect clarity, and can see right through whatever defenses Simmons puts up. Despite this, Grif sighs and slumps back into the couch, nodding.

“You’re right. Nabisco would never go for a formal business letter anyways, it’s viral tweet or nothing. Let’s put on the James Bond episode.” 

Simmons slumps back into the couch too as he reaches for the remote, relaxed and easy in the knowledge that he’s (yet again) put off having a conversation with Grif about anything resembling real human feelings. 

Forty minutes later, when they’re watching Captain Sisko destroy the world with a convoluted plan about volcanoes, Grif opens his mouth and reveals that Simmons’ clever distraction was anything but. 

“Seriously though, is she really your friend? Because I think that’s huge,” Grif says, only a trace of mocking in his tone, and Simmons turns to stare at him. Grif meets his gaze passively. After a moment, Simmons concludes that Grif isn’t going to mock him mercilessly for that and thinks about it. He thinks about her smiling at him, laughing at something he said, her hand a warm weight on his shoulder. Slowly, he nods. Grif quirks a smile at him, real and honest and beautiful.

“Dude. That rules. She was like, your white whale, right? You conquered your white whale with  _ friendship _ . Ahab would be  _ so  _ pissed off about that,” Grif cracks, still smiling, and Simmons chuckles, a little amazed that Grif had used that particular analogy. 

“Yeah,” Simmons says, nodding, deciding to gloss over the fact that Grif has apparently read  _ Moby Dick  _ (when Simmons has never touched it) in favor of asking, “You aren’t… You don’t care about the rumor?” Grif shrugs.

“I believe you. Even if you are lying and you guys really are involved…” Grif trails off there, making a face, “I mean, not that that wouldn’t be  _ weird _ , but like… You’re both adults. You don’t have to tell me shit you don’t want to talk about. And whatever you do have going on, you can tell me when you’re ready. Or not, you know, carrying secrets to your death bed is cool too.”

Simmons heart thumps in his chest, momentarily overwhelmed with affection and gratitude for this man. He’s suddenly strikingly sure that he doesn’t deserve Grif, he’s lied to Grif for  _ years  _ and Grif is so open about everything about himself, even the things most people would be ashamed of.

“Also, like, dude,” Grif levels him with a look, “I know you. I know that you calling someone a friend is a big deal to you, so like. I’m happy. For you.” Simmons watches Grif’s expression carefully, looking for any sign of discomfort when he says that, and finds nothing. He can’t figure out if he should be disappointed or not. He thinks maybe he  _ wants  _ Grif to be a little jealous, just a little, but then he realizes that’s not Grif’s way at all. If their places were switched Simmons knows the jealousy would be driving him crazy, but that’s not exactly a ringing endorsement for good behavior. No, pathetic sitcom scenario aside, Simmons prefers this reaction from Grif: supportive, kind, encouraging, understanding. 

“Thanks,” Simmons chokes out, looking away, unable to look Grif in the face. He thinks about opening his mouth and telling Grif his big secret, thinks that maybe it wouldn’t be a huge disaster if Grif had just said that he could accept Simmons dating  _ Carolina  _ of all people,  and while that course of action feels slightly less impossible than it had a few days ago, it still feels impossible. But still, like before, Simmons searches for something to give Grif, some signal that while he wasn’t ready to open up his head and dump out the contents, he still _ cared _ . 

“We are friends,” Simmons says, flushing, “I mean--you’re my friend. I can admit that.” Simmons watches Grif’s reaction to that very carefully, hoping for some kind of happiness, but what he gets is quiet shock. Grif blinks, his lips parted slightly, and he’s looking at Simmons like he never in a million years would have expected to hear those words come out of his mouth. Honestly, it makes Simmons feel a little guilty. He finds himself staring at Grif’s mouth again, not even realizing it until he sees Grif’s tongue dart out to lick his lips. 

It hits Simmons like a jolt--he thinks he actually jerks back a little--and he remembers that day in the closet in vivid clarity. He’d claimed his memory of that day was foggy, but that was the opposite of the truth. He remembered every moment of it, every kiss, and God, Grif’s  _ mouth _ . He looks away quickly, aware of how his cheeks are burning and trying very hard to think about anything other than Grif’s mouth on his neck. 

Beside him, Grif clears his throat and shifts on the couch, a little bit further away. Simmons burns with shame and guilt, hyper aware that this isn’t something he should want, that Grif is too good for him even if this  _ was  _ something he could want, he’s lucky just to sit next to Grif like this. Carolina’s voice comes to him then-- _ it’s fine for boys to play with dolls-- _ but this isn’t what she meant. Right? This was different. Wasn’t it? Him not being allowed to like Grif had nothing to do with the deep seated impression that boys liking other boys was wrong according to his father. 

“Cool,” Grif says faintly, after an extremely long and awkward pause. Simmons desperately grabs for the remote, needing a lifeline out of this situation that was supposed to be about Simmons’ extremely heterosexual affair but was actually about anything but. 

“This show got so much better after they added Worf,” Simmons says, clicking over to an episode that puts a spotlight on some of Worf’s melodrama, another of his favorites.

“You’d think that adding another stoic rules-loving guy would be too much after Odo but he really does add something,” Grif says, apparently just as grateful for the subject change as Simmons.

“He just has so much chemistry with everyone,” Simmons says, relaxing back a little but unable to look anywhere near Grif, “Odo’s whole thing is that he doesn’t have chemistry with  _ anyone _ .” 

“Except Quark.”

“He-- _ what _ ? Odo does  _ not  _ have chemistry with Quark. They hate each other!” 

At that point the conversation dissolves into bickering, familiar and engaging, and Grif makes him sit through three more episodes to prove his point, which Simmons refuses to concede more for the sake of the bickering than because he doesn’t actually believe it. 

Later, Simmons lays in bed and wonders how much of his guilt and shame about his feelings for Grif is about the gay part, and how much is about the self-loathing part. 

Eventually he pushes the thoughts away and turns over, telling himself that it doesn’t really matter because nothing will ever come of it either way. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got hit with a big inspiration bug for this on my one day off and ended up writing a whole bunch for it, then I got too excited and couldn't resist posting this chapter way early. I loved writing this one and you bet your ass I went out and bought a boat load of oreos after I finished it.


	5. Impossible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carolina and Simmons spend some quality time together and address several elephants in the room.

The next morning, Simmons messages Carolina after breakfast to ask if she wants to hang out, and she invites him to that day’s training. He thinks it’s a little odd that Blue Team is still training when they’re all supposed to be retired, but then again  _ Red Team  _ is still training. But that has more to do with Simmons being a creature of habit and Simmons, Donut and Grif all being worried that Sarge might have some kind of terrible breakdown if they don’t keep up the illusion of being military personnel. 

Actually, now that he thinks about it, he could see that Blue Team might have similar fears about Carolina. He wouldn’t usually say Carolina and Sarge have anything in common, except that neither of them have an ‘off’ switch. 

Simmons spots Carolina while she reps an alarming amount of weight without her armor on, and when they switch she raises her eyebrows at the amount of weight he takes off. 

“What?” he says, his shoulders and his voice going up, defensive and insecure. Carolina is without a doubt the strongest person he knows, and part of why he keeps his routine safely inside Red Base is because the thought of two of the most capable soldiers in the galaxy watching him and judging him silently is the stuff of his nightmares.

“I’m… just now realizing that I’ve never actually seen you work out or train, somehow. That’s actually impressive, considering we fought a whole war together. Have you secretly been really strong all this time?” Carolina is giving him a strange look, tilting her head and looking him up and down. Simmons stiffens. 

“I have a robot arm! And I use a rocket launcher all the time! It’s an unfair stereotype that you’d assume I’m weak!” Carolina gives him a long, flat look, and Simmons wilts, “Okay, maybe I didn’t always spend time training until I had one arm that was extremely strong and one arm that was very weak, and then starting fighting a real war instead of a fake one, but I’m here now and I’m not afraid of jocks in the locker room judging me!” 

The sound Carolina makes is somewhere between a laugh and a cough, and she has to double over and lean on on weight bench to get her bearings back. 

“Yeah, clearly,” she wheezes, and Simmons straightens his back and crosses his arms over his chest.

“Oh, just shut up and spot me, you big, stupid jock,” he says, and she pushes herself back upright to send Simmons a grin.

“Yeah, whatever, nerd.”

She does spot him, and he gets through his reps with minimal commentary from Carolina, and Simmons doesn’t know if she’s holding back to be nice or if his form is genuinely acceptable. He’s not sure which option he wants it to be, actually.

“Was it tough getting used to the cyborg parts?” she asks later, sitting on the weight bench with her chin in one hand, watching Simmons carry all the weights with his cybernetic arm. Simmons shrugs.

“It was a learning experience. It’s not like there’s a manual for something like this. At first it was terrible, because the cybernetic limbs are a lot heavier than my natural limbs were, and like I said I wasn’t exactly training every day. So I would grab a cup with my new arm and shatter it, and sometimes I had to carry my arm in my other arm because it was too heavy for my shoulder. I’ve had to do a lot of adjustments over the years to find a balance between having a useful boost in strength without having so much strength that I just hurt myself.” Carolina nods, her eyes alight with interest. Simmons realizes he hasn’t really showed off his cybernetic limbs to anyone before. After all, most of the time he’d had them covered by the armor so most people had no idea they were there, and those who did know (Grif, Sarge, Donut) had absolutely no reason to ask him any questions about them.

“Interesting. How much can the cybernetic arm lift on its own?” she says, eying his arm carefully. Simmons considers that and then shrugs.

“It’s hard to say, really. I can lift quite a bit with just my hand, but anything really hefty I’d need to use my shoulder and back muscles, or even my other arm, none of which are cybernetic. So it’s limited by my organic parts even if I  _ am  _ just using the one arm.” Simmons flexes his arm to show what he means, rotating his arm in the socket. Carolina watches him, considering. 

“Did Grif have a harder time adjusting than you did?” she asks finally, and Simmons looks away, his expression darkening. 

“Yeah, definitely,” he answers immediately, “A lot of the stuff that didn’t get replaced was still injured, and the stuff that  _ did  _ get replaced wasn’t always a perfect fit. I’m taller than he is, so Sarge had to get a little creative to make it work. His joints are all cybernetic too, and some parts of his bones and major nerves, it was… A lot to deal with. And painful, apparently.” Simmons thinks about that, holding his mechanical hand in his organic one and rubbing his palm. Simmons remembers those days, distracted by his own exhaustion and confusion, the oddly numb feeling from his new limbs, but then there was Grif. Grif, immobilized for days, and when he could finally move he needed help, needed to re-learn how to walk as his nerves healed and re-established. 

“I think it still bothers him sometimes, aches and pains, but… He doesn’t talk about it,” Simmons says, and he can’t mask the worry and disappointment in his voice. He sits down on the weight bench next to Carolina, sighing. Carolina puts her arm around him and Simmons sinks into her side, amazed at this comfort, a kind of comfort he’s never really known. This comfort expects nothing of him, no ulterior motives or inevitable other shoe dropping, just the knowledge that someone else is there, and they care. 

“Soo,” Carolina starts, and Simmons tenses in spite of himself, “Are you ever gonna talk about how incredibly in love with Grif you are?”  

Panic jolts up his spine at the question, blood thundering in his ears. This is Carolina, he tells himself, forcing his muscles to relax, forcing the panic back down. Carolina can be trusted, Carolina understands, he tells himself carefully. When he glances over, Carolina looks worried. 

“You don’t have to talk about it,” she says carefully, her palm stroking warmly up and down his arm, his nerves made over-sensitive by the panic. Slowly, he pulls away, giving her an apologetic glance. She puts space between them, not much but enough, and looks unbothered by it. 

“No, it’s…” Simmons says, pausing to clear his throat when his voice shakes, “Sorry. I’ve never really… talked about that. With anyone.”

“It’s okay,” Carolina says, her voice calm and soothing, lacking her usual amused lilt that always makes her sound sarcastic, “Like I said, you don’t have to talk about it.” 

“No, it’s okay, really,” he says, staring down at his palms, one blotchy red and one gray, “I am… in, uh, in love, with… With Grif.” Simmons looks around, and sure enough, the walls aren’t coming down, the moon isn’t shaking apart into pieces, his world isn’t ending. He breathes a huge sigh, slumping with the relief of finally saying those words out loud. 

“And how’s that going for you?” Carolina says, smirking, shocking a laugh out of Simmons. 

“Oh,  _ great _ ,” he says, rolling his eyes, “Just great. Ten years spent pining, and for what? Yesterday I told him he was my  _ friend _ .” Simmons makes a face at himself, disgusted mostly because it had been a big deal, had been more emotion than he could remember showing to Grif with the slight exception of that time they’d been locked in a closet together and had sex and cuddled for about six hours. Carolina raises her eyebrows, giving him a look like she doesn’t quite understand the significance of that.

“That’s… something, though, right? Being friends is good,” she says slowly, frowning a little like she doesn’t have confidence in what she’s saying. Simmons briefly wonders if she has experience in these matters, or if, like him, a lifetime of fear and shame had kept her paralyzed and alone. 

“No, I mean, uh… For the first time. I never really… called him that before. Uh, to his face,” Simmons says, flushing, ducking sheepishly when Carolina stares at him. 

“You…  _ what _ ?” Carolina says, flabbergasted, “But you… you’re best friends! How do you spend  _ ten years  _ with someone and never once call them your friend?” Carolina’s shock stings a little, but then, she’s completely right. This shame and guilt is completely deserved.

“Well!” Simmons says, back straightening, because no matter how contrite he is he still feels compelled to defend himself, “At first I didn’t like him at all! And then I kind of did, but we were practically opposites, and it sort of turned into this… thing. Kind of a running joke, but also…” Simmons pauses for a moment, realizing that his self-defense has turned more introspective. Before he can lose his nerve, he barrels on, “It felt… It  _ feels _ … impossible. Impossible that we could… be a part of each other’s lives.” That thought, once voiced, hangs in the air. Simmons feels like he can see it all around him, tension in the air and in the back of his hand, the way Carolina’s biceps look like they’re about to burst out of her skin. “So I couldn’t say he was my friend. That would have been like admitting that maybe… Maybe we could be a part of each other’s lives.”

After a long moment, Simmons remembers that he’s talking to someone else and glances guiltily up at Carolina. Her expression is odd, kind of pinched, and she looks a little like she might throw up at any moment. 

“But you did call him your friend,” she says finally, her voice strangely urgent, “Last night.” Simmons nods. “What did he say?”  Simmons recalls the moment, the open shock on Grif’s face, the uncomfortable veering from emotional honesty directly into sexual tension.

“Uh… ‘Cool’.” Simmons says finally, deciding that particular facet of the moment wasn’t worth explaining. That odd pinched look doesn’t leave Carolina’s face.

“I don’t know why I was so surprised that it took you two ten years to admit to being friends,” she says, shaking her head, and Simmons shrugs helplessly. She, apparently, doesn’t have any more to say on the matter, and they sit in silence. Simmons stares at his hands and thinks about Grif. Wonders, for the first time, if there’s a step he could take. A step, not away, but towards. Wonders what that would take. 

“Did you… Do you… have anyone?” Simmons asks, finally, only after voicing the question does he realize how desperate he’s been to ask it since the words  _ internalized homophobia  _ left her mouth. Next to him, Carolina stiffens. It takes her a while to answer. 

“No,” she says finally, but sounds hesitant, “I… A long time ago, I cut that part of myself out. I knew it, I accepted it, but… It would have just… interfered. With my plans. With my  _ score _ .” That word tears itself out of her throat and Simmons blinks over at her in surprise, not expecting the loathing and anger in her voice. “And now… Here I am, retired, after bringing down my own father and winning a war, living on a moon with a bunch of dumbass boys who are more like family than I’ve ever known.” A wry smile works its way onto her face, and Simmons is stunned by it. “I turned that part of myself off, and now… I don’t know how to turn it back on.”

Simmons is reaching out before he realizes what he’s doing, and when he realizes it he doesn’t stop. He puts his arm around her shoulders like she’d done to him, and it feels huge. It feels like stretching a muscle after not moving it for a long time, a little bit of pain but mostly relief. A lifetime of holding back and reconsidering melting away as he does something so simple, offering comfort to a friend in need, communicating care and  _ love  _ through physical touch, something he’d long ago resigned himself to living without. Carolina leans into his touch, sighing.

“I think,” he says, haltingly, “That things like that never really get shut off. They just get pushed down or covered up. They’ll come back. Like when you forget something, and when you try you can’t remember it, but then after you give up and hours go by it just pops in your head.” Carolina chuckles softly.

“Thanks,” she says, ducking her head, “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I should just.... Relax.” She says the word like it leaves a bad taste in her mouth and it makes Simmons laugh.

“If it’s relaxing you want, I cannot help you,” he says, grinning and squeezing her shoulder, “It’s Grif you need for that.” 

She rolls her eyes and pulls away, stretching and kicking her feet, intending to get back to training.

  
“Yeah, I’ll make sure to sign up for his next  _ Relaxation for Dummies  _ course,” she says, smirking, and Simmons laughingly follows her to do some laps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I put way too much thought and research into how exactly Grif and Simmons body-swap actually could have happened.
> 
> And again, thank you all so much for the comments and kudos and support! I don't often have the spoons to reply but I always read them (and sometimes re-read!) and they are supremely appreciated.


	6. Crybaby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wash is equal parts oblivious and intuitive, and Carolina learns that lying to your best friends is not as easy as it sounds.
> 
> (There's some vague Tuckington in this chapter.)

They’re finishing up their training when Wash and Tucker waltz in. Carolina is laughing, Simmons wiping his sweaty face with a towel, blushing faintly. She’s making fun of him for trying in vain to keep up with her, despite the fact that her training was about ten times more brutal than Sarge’s. 

Tucker stops dead, slapping a hand out to stop Wash, who startles and grabs onto Tucker’s shoulder to keep his balance. 

“Oh my god,” Tucker stage-whispers, loud enough that Carolina and Simmons fall silent. They all stare at each other in silence, and Carolina realizes belatedly that her arm is slung around Simmons’ shoulders. Somehow, this friendship with Simmons has rapidly become one of the most touchy-feely relationships of her whole life. She’d never been one for physical affection, having a dead mother and a father who spent all his time living inside his regrets and zero time giving his only daughter any attention. But there’s something about Simmons that’s different, something under the surface that he hides desperately. It’s a softness, a sensitivity that Carolina is not too familiar with, having spent her whole life in the most demanding of military programs. Simmons is tender, gentle, and it feels so easy to be like this with him: open, honest, affectionate. Still, there’s a time and a place for that kind of thing, and she takes her arm off his shoulders. 

“Uh, hey ‘Lina,” Wash says, and Carolina can tell by his big eyes and the tight way he’s holding onto Tucker’s shoulder that he’s shocked, “...Simmons.” Carolina doesn’t miss the way Simmons tenses next to her, subtle enough that she’s sure Tucker and Wash can’t see it. She remembers Wash telling her, voice thick with guilt and self-loathing, about South, about killing a pink-armored simtrooper in cold blood. He’d told her that he and Donut had spoken about it at length, that Donut had forgiven him, but now Carolina wonders if Donut isn’t the only one Wash might want to speak to. 

“Hey, guys,” she says after a pause, raising her eyebrows and then moving to pick up her duffle. 

“Sooo…” Tucker says, not even attempting to hide the glee in his voice, “Did we interrupt your date? It’s cute that you guys would go lift weights for a date. Very fitting.” Tucker’s huge, shit-eating grin grates on her nerves and she rolls her eyes, looking over at Simmons who is looking at her, looking a little wide-eyed and lost. They had mutually decided to lean into the dating thing, only now she was thinking neither of them knew how to put that idea into practice. 

“I, uh,” Simmons says, his voice squeaking as he looks at the three of them, “I gotta go! Sarge has got this, you know, thing, uh, bye Carolina!” Simmons is practically running before he’s even finished his sentence, and he turns to walk backwards and give Carolina a pathetically apologetic look, mouthing  _ I am so sorry  _ at her. She just rolls her eyes again, and he speed-walks out of the gym. Tucker looks delighted, Wash confused and worried. They both watch Simmons go and then turn back to Carolina, who sighs at the looks on their faces. 

“What, uh,” Wash says, his eyes flicking between the door Simmons disappeared through and Carolina, “What’s… going on? With you two?” Tucker glaces at Wash and they share a moment, “I mean, I know we’ve all been teasing you two a bit but, um, you aren’t really…” Wash gestures vaguely with one hand and Tucker laughs. 

“Wash!” Tucker exclaims, whapping Wash good-naturedly, “Don’t get in the way of romance! Simmons is a shy flower that needs delicate encouragement to bloom!” Wash and Carolina both make the same choked snorting noise, Carolina fighting the urge to gag. 

“Tucker…” she starts, warning, and Tucker takes a step back, raising his hands. 

“Oh no, I get it! You two need your space, I _get_ _it_ ,” he winks, luridly, and Carolina can’t help but laugh, “He was certainly very sweaty, wasn’t he, Wash? You’d better go easy on him, ‘Lina.”

“Tucker,” Wash snaps, and Carolina blinks at him. He looks serious, frowning slightly, and Tucker blinks at him as well.

“What?” Tucker squawks, looking petulant, “Oh, come on, Wash, don’t get all bitchy with me, I just--” 

“Tucker,” Wash snaps again, his frown deepening, and they stare at each other for long moment. They seem to have a silent conversation, and Carolina watches with an amused smirk as Tucker makes twitchy, constipated expressions and Wash makes about four different versions of the same pouty frown. 

“Oh, fine,” Tucker says, shooting Carolina a look and then slumping away. When he’s gone Carolina turns to Wash, crossing her arms over her chest and smirking.

“What’s this about, Wash?” she asks, honestly curious what’s got Wash all twitchy and serious. The look Wash gives her is bewildered and way too serious for the situation. She just  _ knows  _ he’s gone and got himself all worked up over something stupid.

“”Lina…” he says, stepping closer to peer at her face, “I’m worried about you.” Carolina balks at him, unable to comprehend what he could be talking about.

“Worried?” she repeats, giving Wash an odd look.

“Yeah. This thing between you and Simmons has you all…” Wash gestures towards her, “You’re not acting like yourself. I’m worried that you might…” He sighs and then looks back at the door Simmons ran through, and comprehension dawn on her like a bolt of lightning. 

“Oh my God,” she breathes, rolling her eyes. These  _ boys _ . “You think he’s going to break my heart.” 

“I just!” Wash starts, his serious frown cracking a little now that he doesn’t have to explain, the worry leaking through, “I know your track record for things like this, and I know  _ Simmons  _ and I just… I don’t know if he can… Be a good…  _ Companion  _ for you.” Carolina can’t keep back the laugh that bubbles up her throat. She honestly can’t believe this is her life, her best friend in the universe worried about her falling in love with a gay little nerd who’s in love with  _ his  _ best friend. Wash probably knows all about Simmons, or at least has a strong suspicion. He can be very intuitive on occasion, and other times he can be as thick as a brick wall.

“I’m serious, ‘Lina! I don’t think he’ll return your feelings! Not that, I mean, that’s all your business, of course, I’m not telling you how you feel, I just…” Wash trails off, looking pinched and worried. Carolina sighs, coming over to put her hand on Wash’s shoulder. He looks up at her, and she can see the stress and tension in his eyes. He must have been worrying about this for a while. Maybe since the dinner the other night. She remembers, suddenly, their awkward and terrible little plan, and wonders if she shouldn’t pretend to take this advice to heart. The plan had been… well, about as solid as plans got for her these days, and this is her chance to sew a seed that she can use later as an easy out. She searches Wash’s face, collecting her words carefully, maybe something about how logic doesn’t have much to do with feelings, or maybe how she knows Simmons better than Wash does, but she wavers. This is  _ Wash _ . Right at this moment he’s staring up at her, almost craning his neck to look her in the eyes, and he looks so worried and upset and he cares so much, and she finds that she cannot lie to him. 

No, that’s not quite right. She  _ could  _ lie to him, could voice the words on the tip of her tongue, she just really doesn’t want to. Wash has been lied to enough for one lifetime, they both have, and despite the very serious core of this little lie, she doesn’t want to perpetuate that. No, easy out or not, she won’t lie to Wash. Besides, chances are he already knows the truth, or at least suspects it. 

“Wash, it’s okay. You have nothing to worry about,” she says firmly, and he seems to relax a notch, but he still looks dubious, “Believe me,” she says, ducking her head to look him right in the eyes, “I know what I’m doing.” She doesn’t, really, but she’s learning this fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants thing, might as well lean into it. He gives her a long, hard look, and then nods.

“I know you don’t need me to look after you,” he admits with a sigh, looking bashful, “I didn’t mean to overstep.” She cracks a smile that he echoes.

“You didn’t,” she says, and is a little surprised to find that she really means it. She remembers Simmons earlier, his arm shaking as he reached out to pull her into a hug, and without letting herself overthink this she tugs Wash into a hug. She wraps her arms around him, their height difference never more apparent than it is now, and after a shocked gasp Wash reaches up to hug her back. “Thank you for looking after me.” 

Wash nods against her chest, his breath stuttering a little. Carolina herself feels a little choked up, overwhelmed with love. This affection and emotional honestly thing isn’t really so bad. 

“No problem,” he says, his voice strained, and for a long moment they just stand there, breathing. When Wash pulls away he clears his throat and quickly brings his hands to his face. Carolina smirks, reaching up to wipe a stray tear from his jaw with her knuckle.

“Crybaby,” she says softly, and Wash laughs wetly.

“Shut up,” he says, pouting and looking up at her with sparkling eyes. 

“Oh- _ ho _ !” Tucker’s voice carries over to them, fairly cackling with glee, “Carolina, you no good two-timer! What would Simmons say?” 

“Tucker,” Wash says, warning but amused, and the grin drops off of Tucker’s face so fast that Carolina jerks back a little, she’s so surprised. 

“Wash? You okay?” Tucker sounds nearly frantic as he rushes across the room to Wash’s side, his hands fluttering up like he wants to touch Wash all over but is also afraid of doing so. Carolina’s eyebrows go up, and Wash sees her face and flushes. She wonders, faintly, if she should be the one warning Wash not to get his heart broken. She also wonders if she’s really been a gigantic idiot for keeping her secret from Wash all these years, with the way him and Tucker are looking at each other. 

“I’m  _ fine _ , Tucker,” Wash says, giving Tucker a look, and after a moment Tucker sighs and nods, taking a step back and dropping his hands to his sides. 

“I’ll just, uh,” Carolina says, gesturing to the door and then moving quickly towards it, before Tucker’s hovering hands or insinuating eyebrows make her life any more complicated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant this to be a two parter with Carolina and Simmons each having a moment with someone else, but then this part ended up a little bit longer and I'm not done with the Simmons part of it so here it is. And next time: Simmons and Donut have a heart to heart!


	7. You Have A Beautiful Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simmons discovers that lying about being straight to the only out gay man he knows feels... bad.

Simmons all but runs back to Red Base, fleeing the dreaded  _ Blue Team Problems _ , as Grif so aptly puts it. Probably running away the second him and Carolina are faced with a test of their new-fake-relationship is not the best course of action, but there’s only so much Simmons can take. Having emotional conversations with Carolina and Grif individually? Way more than he signed up for. Having potentially emotional conversations that would most likely end with Wash doing that backhanded compliment thing he’s so good at and Tucker making unpredictably uncomfortable comments? Absolutely impossible. 

Simmons couldn’t deal with Blue Team on a  _ good  _ day. Hell, Simmons couldn’t deal with  _ Red Team  _ on a good day.

As if to punish him for that thought, Simmons rounds the corner in Red Base going full speed and barrels right into someone. That someone squeals and then grunts, and Simmons is blinking down at Donut, sprawled on the ground. 

“Oh, hey Donut. Sorry,” Simmons says awkwardly, reaching out to help him back on his feet. Donut stands, wincing and shaking his head.

“Simmons! What’s got you all flustered?” Donut says, turning his bright smile on Simmons, despite the fact that Simmons just knocked him to the ground and probably gave him a bruise at least. Simmons blinks at him. He’s never been able to be alone with Donut for too long, and this whole thing with Carolina has put that reaction into sharp and sudden relief. Simmons swallows down a ball of guilt.

“Are you okay? That looked rough,” Simmons says, frowning, and Donut just rolls his shoulders and laughs.

“Oh, I’ve had worse!” Donut says cheerfully. Simmons’ eyes dart from the awful scar on his eye to his chest, covered in a crop top but Simmons knows there’s another, worse scar there, even though he’s never seen it. Donut makes a huffing noise and when Simmons looks back up at his face he’s rolling his eyes. Then he skips across the space between them and takes Simmons by the arm. Simmons tenses, and then forces himself to relax.

“Oh, stop that,” Donut chides him gently, marching Simmons further into the base, towards the common room, “You think too much. I’m fine!” Donut’s right. That’s the thing about Donut: he’s always right. Probably the most well-adjusted one out of the lot of them, despite his terrible suffering. Simmons doesn’t know how he does it, sometimes he still wakes up in a cold sweat, dreaming of staring down the barrel of Agent Washington’s rifle. Donut leads him straight through the common room and into the kitchen and then lets go of his arm, leaving Simmons on the threshold while he bustles around the room, taking down two wine glasses.

Donut is just so sure of himself, and Simmons has never understood him. Kept him at arm’s length because he was terrifying, confident, open and honest and way too shameless about the words that came out of his mouth. He was the embodiment of everything Simmons’ father didn’t want in a son. And now Simmons knows the two of them are more alike than they are different. Well, it’s not like he hasn’t known that all along, it’s just that now he can think that thought without having a panic attack and running away. Okay, maybe he is still a little panicky now but it’s definitely less panic than he’s experienced before. 

Simmons watches Donut flutter around the kitchen, fetching a wine bottle out of the fridge and pouring a generous amount into each of the two glasses and then muttering something about a snack and burying himself in the pantry. Simmons stares at the wine, pink and bubbly in the glass, and feels awful about himself. 

On one hand, he knows even if he does eventually get to a point where the thought of expressing himself doesn’t make him break out hives he will never act the way Donut acts. He has no passion for flowers or beautiful things like Donut does, couldn’t imagine ever slipping on a pink crop top with  _ Hot Bitch _ scrawled across it in rhinestones, and wine gives him a headache. He is not charming or bubbly or friendly or  _ outgoing _ . 

On the other hand, he looks so free and easy. Happy. Relaxed. Not wrapped up under a thousand layers of shame and repression and neurosis. 

Hell, he’s practically best friends with the guy who shot him and nearly killed him in cold blood. Simmons still has nightmares about that and he walked away without a scratch. 

Donut presses the glass into his hands and Simmons blinks down at it, his brain finally catching up with the situation. He starts.

“Donut! It’s ten o’clock in the morning!” he realizes, embarrassed that it took him so long to realize what Donut was doing. Donut sends him a wicked grin and waggles his eyebrows.

“It’s five o’clock somewhere!” Donut sing-songs and Simmons guffaws in spite of himself, the joke is too stupid to laugh at but Simmons does anyways, because he wasn’t expecting it. 

“You’ve got me there,” he says, burying his grin in his glass and taking a sip. He’s retired, right? It doesn’t matter. Besides, he could use a drink. Donut ushers him over to sit at a stool at the kitchen island, a cheese and cracker assortment on the table, shockingly elaborate for how Donut pulled it together in about a minute. Simmons sits, setting the wine down and taking a cracker.

“So,” Donut says, sitting next to Simmons and doing a little wiggle as he settles into the stool, “Tell me everything.” Simmons looks over, giving Donut an odd look.

“Everything about… what?” Simmons asks, leaning back a little, squinting at Donut warily. Donut just goes on grinning, sunny and unconcerned.

“Oh, you know! This whole thing about you and Carolina! It’s an unexpected and fascinating new development!” Donut gushes, and Simmons winces. He should have known Donut was after the gossip. Simmons looks down at his glass, fingering the stem and considering what to say. This would be the perfect time to get his genius plan going, give Donut a few embarrassed hints that they’ve been spending a lot of time together (technically true) and he really enjoys her presence (also technically true) and let Donut’s little gossip-loving elderly-neighbor-staked-out-at-the-window mind connect the dots. It would be easy, but it feels… not great. Not great to lie to  _ Donut  _ of all people about how he’s pretending to be straight with a lesbian mostly as an excuse to continue to be a coward for a little while longer. 

Simmons clears his throat and then takes a fortifying sip of his wine. 

“We’re just, um, friends,” Simmons admits quietly, aware that this phrase has convinced just about zero people that him and Carolina aren’t romantically involved. Even Grif only grudgingly accepted the truth after Simmons practically begged him to. And that is a thought that hadn’t occurred to him before-- lying to Grif. Even though he’d gone to hang out with Grif immediately after him and Carolina had agreed to enact their loosely-defined plan, it had never occurred to him to lie to Grif. It didn’t seem quite possible, especially considering Grif’s take on the whole situation.  _ Impossible  _ had been his word.

Apparently, lying by omission was as easy as breathing, but lying directly to his friends was hard. Who knew?

“Simmons?” He starts when he feels a hand on his knee and hears a voice say his name, and suddenly he’s staring up into Donut’s concerned face. He flushes, embarrassed to have tuned out of the conversation so completely. 

“Sorry,” he says, jerking his eyes down to his lap, his body curling into itself sheepishly, “Um, what were you saying?”

“Oh, I was just saying that Tucker’s been very enthusiastically claiming that you’re the new couple around these parts, but  _ Grif  _ says that’s stupid, and Wash is very upset about it, and Sarge is worried you’re going to defect to Blue Team again, which I said was never going to happen because Carolina isn’t even a Blue! And Caboose just keeps saying you guys are best friends and give each other best friend hugs which is  _ no  _ help,” Donut pauses to take a breath, then a fortifying sip from his glass, “So I need to get the details from the horse’s mouth, so to speak!” 

Simmons gapes at him for a long moment, and then knocks back a long gulp of wine. 

“It’s not…” he starts, and then groans. Why is talking about important and deeply personal things so hard? “It’s not a big deal, all right? Everyone’s blowing this way out of proportion.” Simmons peeks over at Donut and he’s leaning his chin on his hand, giving Simmons a searching look. After a long moment, he nods.

“I see,” he says, “I think I get it. You two do seem oddly compatible, but I have to admit I was surprised to hear about Carolina because she’s… Well, you know.” Donut gives Simmons a significant look, a mysterious smile, and Simmons’ heart stops. Did he betray her part of the secret? Should he have told Donut that they do all kinds of heterosexual kissing? 

“I-- I don’t know!” Simmons says, hearing his voice get high-pitched and squeaky and taking a few breaths to try and calm it, “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Donut smiles, reaching over to shove Simmons gently on the shoulder.

“Oh, come on, Simmons! You don’t have to play coy with me.” Of all the terrifying things that have come out of Donut’s mouth, this is one of the scariest. “You know, she’s so focused and serious! Romance doesn’t seem all that important to her!” Simmons gapes at him, again, then takes a deep breath and presses  his hand over his chest. This is why he doesn’t hang out with Donut. Too many rollercoasters. 

“I… Yes, exactly,” he says weakly, and then gulps down the rest of his wine, “She’s very… independent.” Simmons’ head swims a little in the rush of alcohol, and he remembers why he doesn’t drink wine. 

“Donut, I…” Simmons starts, then pauses to take a deep breath, forces himself not to think too hard about what he wants to say and just says it, “I’m sorry.” 

“ _ You’re  _ sorry?” Donut repeats, blinking in surprise, “Why, Simmons, what on Earth do you have to be sorry for!”

“I… Well, for one, I know I’ve always been kind of… Hard on you. And avoided you at every turn for most of the time we’ve known each other, and… And then there’s that thing where I watched you get shot and I didn’t do anything and left you to bleed out on the ground.” Simmons realizes with a head-rush of mortification that his voice is shaking and he’s dangerously close to too emotional. He closes his mouth and covers his face with his hands, trying to pull himself together. He wishes he’d never seen Wash this morning, wishes he’d never heard his own name sounding so cold and scary in Wash’s mouth, wishes he were anywhere other than on this moon. 

“Oh, Simmons,” Donut simpers, and Simmons hears the creak of the stool and feels Donut’s arms wrapping around him, “It’s okay. I’m not upset with you. Especially that last one, that was so far from being your fault. It’s okay, I’m okay.” Donut speaks softly and gently, right into Simmons’ ear, and something in Simmons’ chest kind of… relaxes. It feels like one tiny splinter coming loose, but this splinter has been niggling him for years and years, and he doesn’t realize how much it had been hurting him until it’s gone. 

Slowly, he reaches up to return the hug, ignoring the screeching little alarm in his head telling him not to.  _ Who cares _ , he thinks suddenly, rebelliously. His father isn’t here. Probably Simmons will never see him again, and he can’t say he’s particularly upset about that. It feels more like relief than anything else. 

“Thank you,” Simmons says into Donut’s shoulder, holding him tighter.

“Aww, Simmons! Stop, you’re gonna make me cry!” Donut wails, burying his face in Simmons shoulder and patting his back. Simmons huffs out a little laugh and Donut pulls back, holding Simmons out at arms’ length. 

“Simmons…” Donut starts, searching his face for a long moment before he continues, “You have a beautiful soul.” Simmons reels back a little at that, making a face, torn between being flattered and mildly disgusted. Then movement catches his eye over Donut’s shoulder and his heart stops. Grif is standing there, and in the small stretch before he realizes Simmons is looking at him, there’s an odd expression on his face. He’s frowning, sharply, and looks almost incredulous but not quite. Simmons can’t quite identify the emotion under the expression, and wishes not for the first time that Grif was more expressive and readable. 

The expression only lasts a second, less than that even, before Grif’s eyes sharpen and he raises an eyebrow, giving Simmons a wide-eyed and distinctly amused look.

“Am I interrupting something?” Grif says, waltzing into the room like he’s above all the goings-on of his teammates. He makes a beeline for the cheese and cracker tray.

“Grif!” Donut crows, delighted, and Simmons uses the distraction to extract himself from Donut, looking carefully at Grif, who he catches watching him right back. Grif snaps his eyes over to Donut, giving him a flat look.

“If you’re gonna try to hug me I will take these crackers and I will run,” Grif warns, brandishing a cracker sandwiched between a couple of cheese slices like he’s threatening a hostage. Donut rolls his eyes and shakes his head.

“You should open yourself up more, Grif,” Donut says primly, gathering up the empty wine glasses and taking them to the sink, “You might be pleasantly surprised by what you find! Like Simmons!” Simmons knows that Donut didn’t mean it the way he phrased it, but it makes his cheeks burn anyways. 

“Yeah, I’ll get right on that,” Grif says blankly, cutting Simmons a dry, sardonic look that has Simmons snorting with helpless laughter. Donut stands across the room, hands on his hips, surveying the two of them, and Simmons realizes they have somehow gone from him and Donut hugging while Grif watched from the doorway to Donut across the room and Simmons and Grif side by side and grinning at each other. His head swims again, and he can’t blame all of it on the Morning Wine. 

“You two,” Donut says, shaking his head and sighing like they were the bane of his existence. He takes the cheese and crackers and flounces off without another word, although he does shoot Simmons a significant look on his way out the door that Simmons pretends not to see. There’s a stretch of silence and Simmons tries valiantly to not look at Grif, but finally he cracks and Grif is staring at him with an incredibly incredulous expression. 

“Really, Simmons?” he says, glancing significantly at the empty wine glasses in the sink. Simmons shrugs helplessly. 

“It’s no big deal,” he says, for the second time since entering this room, and both times it was only a half-truth. It’s not a big deal in the way Grif’s eyebrows are communicating it’s a big deal, but it also is kind of a big deal. It feels kind of huge, this shifting of self inside his own chest. Accepting that Donut is not a terrifying, looming presence in his life, a constant reminder of his own shame and ineptitude, a nightmare walking around and asking Simmons if his butt looks good in these shorts. Donut is just a guy, just his friend. His very gay friend. And that’s fine, because he’s Donut’s very gay friend as well. 

“You’re day-drinking and eating cheese and crackers and you’re  _ hugging _ Donut? And I’m pretty sure that wasn’t one of his guerilla hug attacks, you were  _ hugging each other _ . You were hugging Donut? Like, on purpose?” Grif is boggling at him, and he can’t seem to get past the hugging part. Simmons gives him a careful look, “You and Donut, hugging, and not a big deal? Man, I’m about this close to tying you to a chair and interrogating you until whatever pod-person that replaced you reveals itself.” 

There’s a beat of silence after that sentence, and Simmons looks away as his brain helpfully flashes an image to go along with  _ I’m about this close to tying you to a chair _ . He hastily pushes that thought away, but when he glances over at Grif their eyes meet, and it’s only a brief moment, so brief that Simmons doesn’t have time to register anything about Grif’s expression except that it’s terrifying to look at. They both look away. 

Grif clears his throat. Simmons tries to pick up the threads of their conversation.

He has really got to stop letting sexual frustration derail his thoughts.

“I’m not a pod person,” he says, and Grif snorts.

“That’s exactly what a pod person would say,” Grif shoots back, and this time when they glance at each other they just smile, and there are no sparks involved. 

“Grif, you don’t really hate Donut, do you?” Simmons asks, realizes he asked, and turns crimson. He really hadn’t meant to say that out loud, even though he had been thinking it pretty hard. It was so hard to tell which of Grif’s professed emotions were real and which were built up. Grif’s incredulous look gets more incredulous. 

“What?” he says, leaning back a little and looking Simmons up and down like he genuinely expects Simmons to turn into some kind of human-faking alien.

“Donut. I mean, he’s annoying, sure, he has no filter and he talks to us all the time about things we don’t care about, but like… Do you actually hate him? Like, on a fundamental level?” Simmons discovers that now that the thought is real, he can’t stop it. He can’t stop worrying about whether all this time Grif has claimed to hate Donut because of one very specific, flamboyant characteristic, or whether he’s just been exaggerating about how he knew someone mildly annoying. 

“Are you actually asking? This isn’t some weird set up for a joke, is it?” Grif asks skeptically and Simmons shakes his head earnestly. 

“No, I want to know. Like, if he was less annoying, would you still hate him?” Simmons’ heart thumps at this phrasing; way too close to the real thing he wants to know. Grif gives him a searching look, and Simmons gets that feeling again like Grif sees right through him, right  _ into  _ him.

“I don’t know,” Grif says after a silence, his gaze flickering away, apparently giving it real thought, “I guess not. I mean, he is a Red.”

Simmons’ breath gusts out of him as relief washes through him at that response. He smiles widely; he can’t help it. Grif looks mildly surprised.

“Yeah, that’s true. He’s a Red.” Simmons nods, unfathomably comforted by this thought. Donut is different from them, no arguments there, but they’re all on the same team. He’s on the same team as Grif. 

“Being annoying is like the first rule in the Red Team Handbook,” Grif says, shooting Simmons a grin that sends Simmons floating away towards the clouds. Simmons laughs and nods, relieved and happy enough to let Grif tacitly calling him annoying drift away. Right now, he doesn’t care.

“Damn straight,” Simmons says with a decisive nod, puffing out his chest proudly and earning a chuckle from Grif.

_ This, right here _ , Simmons thinks suddenly, watching Grif laugh, seeing the warmth in his eyes,  _ This is what I’ve been holding on to _ . All these years, alone in so many ways except this one, this little knife of happiness that’s been slicing through his defenses and tearing them to ribbons. Now, the walls and the defenses seem less necessary, less like he’ll die if he lets them fall into disrepair. Maybe those walls could fall all the way down, and maybe Simmons could have this, happiness like sun on his face. Maybe he could have this all the time, rather than grasping up little moments, rationing them out so that these good moments would last him through the winter of his own self-isolation. Maybe he could open up, stop hiding, just stand out in the open being nothing but himself, doing nothing but loving and being loved. 

Yeah, maybe. 


	8. Stupid is Pretty Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carolina hatches a new plan and then almost immediately acts on it.

Carolina finds Simmons hiding out in the little alcove between his room and Grif’s, typing away on his datapad. She’d designed this space herself, and with Wash’s input had decided to put Grif and Simmons together, both rooms in the basement with a little sitting area and kitchenette in between. It’s a comfortable little space, and she’s happy with how it came out, especially because Grif and Simmons both spend a lot of time here. The way Simmons is hunched over the table looks uncomfortable but he doesn’t appear to notice or care; his focus is completely on the screen in front of him. Carolina smirks to herself and doesn’t bother pretending she’s not going to enjoy this. She slams her hands down on the table and Simmons shrieks and covers the datapad with both hands.

“We need a new plan,” she says, and Simmons looks up at her with huge eyes, his mouth hanging open, and Carolina stifles the urge to ask him to give her his lunch money. 

“We, uh,” Simmons says, blinking at her and then looking down, quickly swiping away whatever he was working on on his datapad. With that out of the way, he seems capable of logical thought and he looks at her again, “A new plan? Oh, yeah, uh, that’s probably a good idea. I don’t think it’s going quite, um, how we planned.” Simmons frowns and looks away, and Carolina wonders if he’s found lying about being straight to be as distasteful as she has. She nods.

“Yeah. Wash thinks I’m going to get my heart broken,” she says with a grimace, not missing the way Simmons’ eyes go wide.

“He thinks I’m going to hurt you? Oh, god,” he says faintly, looking pale and grim. Carolina gives him a considering look. She can’t really blame him for being afraid of Wash, considering their past interactions and considering Wash, but she she can’t help but find it hilarious. To her, Wash will always be something of a goofy little brother. He’s the guy who grapple hooked his own balls in Freelancer, the guy who always had cat pictures plastered everywhere, the comic relief to a very serious and traumatic situation. Carolina cannot imagine a world where she finds Wash intimidating.

“Is there anyone here you  _ aren’t  _ afraid of?” she asks lightly, and Simmons looks for a moment like he’s going to argue that he’s not afraid of anyone, but he rethinks it. Instead, he considers, looking off to the side and rubbing his cybernetic hand with his organic one.

“...Caboose?” he ventures finally, and Carolina bursts into laughter. 

“I think out of all of us, he’s the one you  _ should  _ be afraid of,” Carolina cracks, grinning, and Simmons smiles and rolls his eyes.

“At least if Caboose hurts me I’ll know it was an accident,” he says primly, and Carolina blinks at him. It’s clear he’s trying to play along, trying to make a joke, but the implications of that joke are somewhat… worrisome. Simmons glances at her and catches her worried look. He looks confused and afraid. 

“Do you really think Wash would hurt you on purpose?” she asks, frowning, and Simmons goes pale again, “Or me?” Simmons jerks his eyes over to her, glancing up and down.

“I don’t know,” he says cagily, leaning back, “You guys aren’t exactly the most predictable of people.” Carolina doesn’t know what to say to that, guilt and shame and confusion roiling around in her guts. She knows she hasn’t exactly been the most loyal of people, hasn’t exactly been best friends with the Reds and Blues, but she’d always thought they were on the same side. She’d never wanted to hurt them. 

Beside her, Simmons shifts, clears his throat.

“I mean-- I don’t mean I’m  _ afraid  _ of you,” he says, and she cuts him a flat look, “Not like that! I don’t mean I lay in bed at night and wonder how you’re going to murder me in my sleep. I trust you,” he says, his voice weak and his eyes scared. Carolina hates that look in his eyes. For a moment, something old and ugly surges up inside her, and she wants to tell Simmons to toughen up, to stop being such a whiny weak baby. She swallows down that urge, the guilt surging up again and she reminds herself that she is not her father, and you do not look out for people by berating them. 

She sighs and sinks into the chair across from Simmons, burying her hands in her hair and staring down at the table. She can hear Simmons shifting anxiously.in his chair. 

“I’m sorry,” he says after a quiet moment, sounding more shaky than he had the last time he’d spoken, “I didn’t mean it like that. I meant--”

“Don’t worry about it,” Carolina cuts him off, taking her hands off her head and looking back at Simmons. She really wants to forget this part of their conversation ever happened, “Forget it. As I was saying, we need a new plan.” She gives him a passive, flat look, and it takes him way too long to meet her eyes. He returns the look, panic dimming slightly in his eyes, and she can see him considering carefully, frowning slightly before he sighs and nods.

“Right. I tried to lie about it to Donut and then, like, it was  _ Donut _ ,” he glances back up at her and she nods in comprehension. Donut is a very disarming person. 

“Yeah,” she says, sighing, “Wash kind of jumped to conclusions but I think he thinks…” Carolina pauses, not sure if she should tell Simmons that his secret might be less of a secret than he thinks, “He might...suspect… That you have feelings for someone else.” She says finally, and Simmons grimaces, but doesn’t seem to fly into a panic. 

“Ugh. This thing is so stupid,” he says, shaking his head, and Carolina can’t help but nod, “It’s like, I want to tell people, but I don’t want to tell people, and I don’t want to not tell people, and I don’t want to lie, so it’s just like…” Simmons throws his hands up, making an expression of frustration and exhaustion.

“Yeah,” Carolina agrees, drumming her fingers on the table and considering their dilemma, “I think we have to tell people.” Simmons blinks at her, his eyes wide. Surprisingly, he takes a fortifying breath and nods, though he does look sweaty. 

“I think you’re right,” he says quietly, his eyes resolutely on his lap, “What if… What if we just picked one person, and told them? Someone who wouldn’t be likely to turn around and immediately tell everyone else.” Carolina smiles and nods.

“So not Tucker,” she suggests, and Simmons nods back.

“Or Donut.” They both chuckle, and Carolina glances away, considering this. She thinks about her conversation with Wash, about their past, about their many and lengthy conversations about York. She feels tired just thinking about that conversation, about York, about admitting finally both to Wash and to herself that her feelings for York had been complicated and serious, but never romantic. 

“What’s that, what’s that look mean?” Simmons is saying, and Carolina looks at him wearily.

“I think I know who we should talk to,” she says, and Simmons goes very still. He looks at her closely, squinting, and then comprehension dawns on his face and he pales.

“No. Carolina.” he says, leaning back, “You mean, who  _ you  _ should talk to, right? You, Wash, alone, somewhere far away, me, hiding in a cave, pretending I don’t exist?” Simmons’ hands curl into fists on the table, and Carolina reaches over to put her hand over one of his.

“Simmons,” she says calmly, and he wilts a little, “You can’t ignore him forever. And he’s  _ not  _ going to try to shoot you again, ever.” She can’t help the stone that creeps into her voice at that, looking at Simmons a little bit coldly for ever believing the opposite. Simmons groans and puts his face in his hands, curling in on himself.

“I know, I know that,” he mutters, “I mean, logically, I know that. I know why he…” Simmons swallows, trails off, chews on his lip, “I know he wouldn’t have ever been there if he thought he had another choice.” Simmons looks devastated to admit this, and Carolina’s heart melts for him. She knows how hard it is, empathizing with people who have hurt you, when it’s so much easier to be blinded by fear and anger. She sighs and reaches out to ruffle his hair. 

“You don’t have to forgive him,” she says after a pause, and he blinks up at her, “I’m not even sure he’d accept it if you did, honestly, but that’s more of a him problem than a you problem.” Simmons blinks again, sits up a little straighter, frowns in confusion. 

“Then what should I do?” he asks, frowning and looking for all the world like what he really needs is someone else to live his life for him. Carolina smiles faintly at him.

“Just stop running away from him,” she says, shrugging, and a look comes over Simmons face like he just tasted something unpleasant. 

“I was afraid you were going to say that,” he says with a sigh, dropping his forehead down on the table, “But I  _ like  _ being a coward,” he whines, plaintively. Carolina laughs again, louder this time. 

“No you don’t,” she observes, and Simmons rolls his head to shoot her a glare. 

“Shut up,” he quips back, rolling his head again so he’s facing the table. 

“Well, then, that’s settled. So when should we tell him?” Carolina says, clapping her hands together, “Now?” She watches the back of Simmons’ neck turn red before her eyes.

“After dinner?” he says weakly, and Carolina sighs, getting up from the table. 

“Fine,” she says, flicking Simmons on the back of the head as she walks past and Simmons squawks, “Get back to your fanfiction.”

“I wasn’t--  _ Who told you that! _ ” Simmons bellows after her, and she just laughs her way out of Red Base. 

~

All through dinner Simmons is twitchy and silent, and Carolina doesn’t miss the worried glances that Grif keeps shooting him. Knowing Simmons, he’s completely oblivious to Grif sitting next to him, staring right at him and oozing concern and devotion. Honestly, the two of them make her feel sick sometimes, and for days now she’s been turning an idea around in her head. From what she’s heard of Simmons’ point of view of his situation with Grif, Grif is too good at hiding his emotions and equally good at reading Simmons. Carolina is reasonably sure that Grif has some serious issues that he’s not dealing with, but nobody seems to know the exact nature of his issues aside from having a rough childhood. She thinks Simmons knows more than the rest of them, but he keeps that information close to his chest.

One of these days she’ll have to corner Grif and have a nice, long talk with him. Not today, though.

Today she has to face her best friend and tell him something she’s been hiding from him since the moment they met. Honestly, if she had less control over herself, she’d be just as twitchy and anxious as Simmons. Maybe even more so. She certainly  _ wants  _ to run for the hills. 

Dinner winds down, and as Simmons stands to start clearing out the dishes, he looks up at Carolina, terror in his eyes. She gives him a small nod and his slumps a little, the fear in his eyes sliding away and getting replaced with resignation. Carolina stands as well, and sees Grif follow Simmons into the kitchen. She spots them having a hushed conversation and she suppresses her urge to sneak up and listen. She has something more important to do. 

“Wash,” she says, catching him gently by the arm on his way out. He stops, blinking at her, confusion written all over his face. Carolina glances back at the door to the kitchen. No Simmons.

“I need to talk to you,” she says, her voice hushed, but she drops her voice even further for her next words, “Privately.” Worry snaps sharply into Wash’s eyes and he glances over towards the kitchen, where she just looked. Then he looks back at her, searching her face, then looks over at where Tucker is hovering and waiting. He gives Tucker a nod and he hesitates and then turns to leave. 

“Okay,” Wash says slowly, stepping back into the room and facing Carolina, “What’s this about?” Carolina swallows, unsure how to answer that, and then Simmons comes out of the kitchen, stopping dead when he sees Carolina and Wash. Grif is just behind him, his gaze moving passively between the three of them before he slips past Simmons and walks away, his expression curiously blank. Simmons watches him go, looking like the only thing he wants in the world is to follow Grif and not be in this room with Carolina and Wash. Carolina meets Simmons’ eyes and jerks her head towards the door.

“Let’s go,” she says, not missing the way Wash’s eyes widen when Simmons crosses the room to join them. The trek out to the hill is silent and awkward, Wash matching her steps and Simmons trailing behind. They don’t sit when they reach the quiet little spot where she’d first found Simmons hiding, they just stand together in a lopsided triangle with Wash looking between her and Simmons like he expects one of them to pull a gun on him. 

“What’s going on?” he says finally, something dark and thunderous in his voice. Simmons surreptitiously takes a step back and Carolina reaches out, pulling him back to her side. She’s not sure exactly why but having Simmons here is such a relief but he is. Maybe it’s just because of how heartening it is to have someone who’s freaking out more than she is. Wash is very still across from them.

“Wash,” she starts, because that’s a good way to start, and then the blank fuzzy static in her mind tells her that perhaps Simmons isn’t freaking out more than she is, “I just wanted to…” She trails off, that static ramping up, and she’s staring across at Wash and thinking about a conversation they’d had years ago, back when Freelancer was new and York was just kind of a funny jerk and Wash was teasing her about how he had a crush on her. Then Simmons at her side steps a little closer, his hand coming up to rest in the center of her back. She relaxes a little, finding strength and comfort in the gesture.

“Me and Simmons aren’t dating,” she blurts out, and Wash’s eyes go wide as he glances over at Simmons, and then down at where Simmons is clearly touching her back, “We never were. It was actually…” She looks over at Simmons, who is shockingly not sweating and shaking. He meets her eyes and nods a little, panic in his eyes but reassurance too. She takes a deep breath. 

“We’re gay,” she says, and Wash’s mouth drops open, and Simmons jerks in surprise, “I mean, um, I’m gay. Not that he isn’t--” Simmons pinches her and she starts and gives him an apologetic glance, “I mean, um, mostly about me, and I know I should have said something a long time ago but, um, I didn’t, so I am now, and…” She trails off again, not quite able to look at Wash until he bursts out with the one thing she was hoping he wouldn’t say.

“What about York?” 

Her eyes snap over to him and he winces like he didn’t want to say that either. She can feel Simmons staring at her too, wonders if he ever had any reason to know about York.

“Sorry, sorry, I shouldn’t have… You don’t have to answer that,” Wash says, scrubbing a hand through his hair and shaking his head.

“No, no, it’s… I should explain. York was…” she pauses, casting her memory back, remembering late nights spent training, working herself into a funk and then York trailing after her, cracking jokes until she was relaxed enough to wind down and fall asleep. For a while, that had meant everything to her. 

“I wanted to be something for him so much,” she says, barely realizing what she’s saying, “He was my ticket to being normal, sometimes I thought maybe…”  _ Maybe I could just fake it and it would be enough _ . That thought had come and gone often in those days, and the regret afterwards, holding onto a lighter and wondering if she’d ever have another chance to be the person who her father would give the time of day. She swallows. “I wanted to love him. I did love him, but not in the way he loved me. I wanted so much to… Be someone else. But it wasn’t me. It was never what I wanted, what I really wanted for myself.” She sighs, feeling like a weight has just evaporated off her shoulders. Cautiously, she looks up at Wash. He looks gobsmacked. 

“Uh… Wow,” he says faintly, his hand coming up to rub his face. He looks over at Simmons and Carolina does too. He’s still staring at her, something raw and miserable in his eyes, and when their eyes lock he looks down at the ground quickly, “And this thing with you two…?” Wash gestures vaguely between the two of them.

“Um… Misunderstanding,” she says quietly, reaching up to squeeze Simmons’ elbow which had dropped away from her back, “We were, um, bonding about both being in the closet and some hugging happened and, uh, Tucker jumped to conclusions.” Wash nods like that makes perfect sense, looking away and still looking stunned. Carolina swallows, terror swallowing her up. This is it, this is the moment she’s been avoiding all this time. She doesn’t really think Wash is going to start cussing her out and calling her names, but the threat is there, and the longer he stares off into the distance, saying nothing, it seems like a real possibility. 

“That’s very, um…” Wash says, and then looks back at her and blinks, “Fine! It’s fine, obviously, I’m just a little, uh, surprised, but it’s all… fine. That’s… good.” He looks rapidly between her and Simmons, who is still staring resolutely at the ground. Carolina sighs in relief, nodding and smiling. 

“Good, great. I’m sorry for never telling you, it was just…”

“No, no! I understand completely, you don’t have to explain, I get it,” Wash says quickly, waving his hands in front of himself, then abruptly looks sheepish, “I mean, I never told you either.” Carolina stares at him, and out of the corner of her eye she sees Simmons snap to attention to stare at Wash, too. He rubs the back of his neck.

“But you and--”

“Um, bisexual, yeah. That wasn’t-- I mean, it was, um, Freelancer wasn’t really the place for complete honesty so I don’t… blame you.” Wash shrugs, looking uncomfortable, and Carolina smiles. Then, Simmons laughs and they both stare at him. 

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, reaching up to cover his grin, “I just, it’s been all these years, and we’ve all been afraid of the same thing when we were all the same this whole time. It’s so stupid, isn’t it?” The grin on Simmons’ face is a little odd and cracked, a little raw but relieved and joyous too. She sees that shock on Wash’s face that reminds her of the first time she’d seen this part of Simmons that he guards so well.

“Shit, that’s the truth,” Carolina says, laughing and shaking her head. Slowly, Wash starts to smile too. 

“I think I’ve realized that stupid is pretty good, all things considered,” Wash says, his smile bright and the three of them laugh. Carolina reaches out to tug Wash into a hug, which he returns gladly. She pulls back, slapping him on the back, a deep, dark place in the middle of her chest filling up with warmth. 

“What now?” Wash asks curiously, looking over at Simmons and then back at her, “Do we get Tucker out here so he can start that rumor he’s working on where the three of us are in a love triangle?” 

“Ew,” Simmons says, pulling a face, at the same time Carolina says:

“Gross,” she says, shaking her head quickly, and then grinning at Simmons, “Just him is bad enough.”

“Hey!” Simmons protests, “I’m a catch, I’ll have you know.” He holds his chin up haughtily and makes Carolina laugh, loud and hard. 

“I think we just… need to tell everyone else,” she says quietly, and Simmons gulps and then nods.

“This one went shockingly well,” he says, and Wash laughs.

“What, like you were expecting me to stab you or something?” he says, grinning, and Carolina smiles back but Simmons tenses. Carolina elbows him surreptitiously. 

“No, of course not,” Carolina says, but Wash doesn’t look like he’s noticed Simmons’ hesitation, because he’s looking off into the distance. 

“Um, sorry guys, I think Tucker’s hovering around waiting for me, I should go,” Wash says, glancing back at Carolina apologetically, “We’ll talk more later, okay?” He reaches out to take her hand briefly and then takes off, jogging back over to Blue base. In the distance, she can hear Tucker saying something, and then Caboose yelling something, and then Wash exclaiming back. Carolina looks off after Wash, smiling faintly. 

“Well,” Simmons says, blowing out a breath, “That was… great, honestly. I never would have thought that would have ended up like that.” Carolina nods, unable to hide her grin. 

“It’s your turn next.” 

“My turn? We both did this!” 

“No, I picked Wash. Now you pick someone.”

“That was never the deal!”

“It’s the deal now.”

“Says who?”

“Says me. And if you won’t pick then I will.”

“Is that supposed to scare me?”

“Oh, yeah, it is. Because you know exactly who I’m going to pick.”

Simmons gapes at her, comprehension slowly dawning on his face. It seems a little bit cruel, but honestly Simmons needs a boot to the pants about Grif. Their delusions are so frustrating to watch. 

“Oh my God,  _ don’t _ ,” he says, losing the thread of their friendly banter in the honest terror that comes on his face. Carolina rolls her eyes. 

“You’re going to have to deal with him at some point, you know. Like you dealt with Wash.”

“I didn’t deal with Wash!  _ You  _ dealt with Wash, and I watched! I don’t have to deal with anything!”

“Simmons,” she says, imploringly, and he wilts.

“No, I know, you’re right. But not-- Not yet. I’ll pick someone. Someone else. Just not… Not him.”

“Okay. Fine. Good. Come on, I need a drink.”

As she slings her arm around Simmons’ neck and leads him back to Red Base, she revels in the feeling of calm that’s come over her. She told her oldest friend that she was gay, and the world didn’t end, and he turned out to be gay too. It was the best case scenario she hadn’t even been able to hope for. And she’d said York’s name out loud, finally said with words that she hadn’t loved him, not romantically. Her father couldn’t leave her again over that, and all that was left was the regret that she’d never told York himself. He’d deserved better than to pine after someone who didn’t have the guts to tell him he didn’t have a chance. But there wasn’t anything she could do about that, now. She could just take the chances she did have, and try to minimize the regrets about her life from this point forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> everyone is gay *throws confetti*


	9. Weight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simmons tries and fails.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait on this chapter! Ran into a block and it took me a while to work through it. This chapter gets kinda real with the emotions so beware. Simmons is going through some stuff.

Simmons, privately, thinks it’s a little unfair of Carolina to throw down the gauntlet like that. It wasn’t that he didn’t  _ want  _ to come out to someone, per se, just that it was easy for her to say. Carolina was strong, both in body and mind. She was capable and reliable and the fact of her spending so long in the closet was more of an anomaly than a rule. For Simmons, hiding and acting like a coward was a way of life. It makes sense for Carolina to overcome her fears and conquer the world of People Thinking She’s Straight because that was what she  _ did _ . Carolina kicked ass and took names and frankly, Simmons couldn’t believe she hadn’t just  _ intimidated  _ everyone into not saying shit about her sexuality. 

Simmons did not kick ass  _ or  _ take names. Not unless you counted roll call. Simmons could be depended on to take names for roll call. 

He had no solid iron will to fall back on like Carolina did. He had no self assurance, no reason to believe that all he had to do was say some words to be accepted. Hell, he had no reason to believe anyone gave a damn about his sexuality.

But then, that was the point, wasn’t it? It wasn’t that anyone  _ else  _ cared—it was that  _ he  _ cared.  _ He  _ wanted to people to know, not because they wanted to know but because he  _ wanted  _ them to know. 

Simmons sighed to himself, feeling like he just lost yet another argument with Carolina and she wasn’t even  _ here _ . 

All right, so he’d do it. But who to tell? 

Grif was right out of the question, no matter what Carolina threatened. Grif was too complicated and that conversation was way too much for Simmons to handle right now. No, he had to pick someone else. 

But who? Simmons wasn’t exactly on friendly terms with many people  _ other  _ than Grif. Donut was a possibility, but then he remembered what he and Carolina had said, about how Donut was likely to go blabbing to everyone else. That meant Donut and Tucker were both out of the question. He considered Wash for a long moment before discarding it. He knew for a fact that Wash wouldn’t have a problem with it, except he got the feeling that Carolina wouldn’t count it because she’d already outed him to Wash. Plus, it was  _ Wash _ . 

That left Sarge or Caboose. Neither option seemed like a good one. His instincts told him to keep to his own team, but this was  _ Sarge _ . Sarge was a wildcard on a good day, and he had never said anything to lead Simmons to believe he didn’t buy into that macho homophobic military thing, especially with the way he treated Donut. But then, Sarge  _ was  _ unpredictable. Sarge was also something close to a father figure to Simmons, and the whole reason he’d joined the military was to  _ avoid _ coming out to his father. 

No, it couldn’t be Sarge. Not yet, anyways. Eventually he would. Probably.

That left just one option. 

Simmons was surprised to find himself not totally disgusted with the idea of coming out to Caboose. Chances were that Caboose wouldn’t even know what he was talking about, and if he did understand Simmons couldn’t imagine him getting angry about it, or even taking issue with it. He actually quite liked this idea when he thought about it.

Simmons stands up suddenly, making up his mind, only he’d forgotten where he was and what he was doing. Grif, halfway across the room with a datapad balanced on his face, started awake. 

“Simmons?” he says, blearily sleep-eyed and for too long Simmons is caught looking at his eyes.  _ Beautiful _ , he thinks, and then shakes his head a little.

“Uh, sorry, didn’t mean to wake you,” he says, ducking his head and staring down at his feet, feeling his cheeks heat up, “I just remembered I have to do something.” Simmons glances up at Grif and then away, taking a step towards the door. Something in him hesitates, like he doesn’t just want to leave Grif here, even though Grif had been sleeping while Simmons read on his datapad. He waits, like he’s waiting for permission from Grif to leave. Grif just stares at him. 

“These days you seem to always be remembering something you have to do,” Grif says lightly, like he doesn’t care, and Simmons doesn’t know whether to be pleased or heartbroken, “Aren’t we supposed to be retired? What’s so important?” A little petulance trickles into his voice and Simmons looks him over, his heart thumping. 

“I just… have to go talk. To Caboose.” he says, and then winces. Sure, telling the truth made his conscience a little lighter, but it didn’t make the incredulous look that Grif shot him any easier to bear. 

“Talk. To Caboose,” Grif repeats in a tone that makes Simmons flush scarlet. Grif squints at him, looking him up and down like he’s wondering how you tell a pod-person from a regular human. 

“Yeah,” Simmons says, shifting his weight from foot to foot and surreptitiously moving towards the exit, “Just, you know, trying to be… friendly. Neighborly. You know.” 

“Uh huh,” Grif says, and gives Simmons one of those looks he does that feels like he’s peering right down into Simmons’ soul. He looks for a moment like he’s going to say something else but apparently decides against it and just leans back and balances the datapad on his face again.

Simmons hovers there longer than he reasonably should, wanting to say something but not having any idea what to say. 

In the end he lets the silence sit and runs away, feeling peculiarly like he just failed somehow. He tries not to think about it as he goes off to find Caboose.

~

He finds Caboose in the basement of Blue Base. It’s kind of a feat because he manages to find him without having to ask anyone where he is (and suffer through the same scrutiny Grif had given him) and without running into Tucker or Wash or Carolina. It’s not really all that impressive, though, because he just follows the loud metallic banging sounds. 

The two bases are almost identical but just different enough that you could never mistake them for each other. For one, Red Base has an air of high-brow interior decorating that is entirely Donut’s influence. Blue Base has more of a bachelor pad vibe, probably mostly the influence of Caboose, who rarely if ever remembers what he was doing with something after picking it up and walking away with it. 

Simmons takes the same route down into the basement of Blue Base as he would take to get to his own room in Red Base, only once he’s down the stairs the space opens up into a large studio. There are big pieces of metal scattered around the room, all twisted and impossible to identify, and every couple of feet along the wall there’s a large red button labeled  _ emergency stop _ . No doubt a genius design element from Carolina. Simmons picks his way across the detritus towards the banging sound, unable to stop himself from staring at the pieces he passes and try to guess at their origin or purpose.

He sees what has to be a giant metal foot and pauses to look at it. He is momentarily horrified by the size of the robot (or death machine) that it might belong to, and he wonders if Wash even checks up on Caboose down here or if they just built him a workshop and then let him loose. 

“Simon!” 

Simmons startles badly and shrinks away from the jovial shout, looking over at Caboose with his shoulders up around his ears and his back hunched like some kind of cartoon goblin. Caboose is grinning widely, a welding mask secured to the back of his head so the strap goes across his face, and he’s holding something that looks alarmingly like a blowtorch. 

“Uh,” Simmons tries, trying to connect the blow torch to the banging sounds and coming up blank, “Caboose,” he tries again, but he has to shake his head and straighten his shoulders before he can look Caboose in the face, “Hello.” Caboose’s smile gets wider, somehow. 

“Hi! Do you want to help?” Caboose looks pointedly at the blow torch and Simmons looks at the tool as well, his expression worried.

“What, um, what are you working on?” Simmons asks even though he knows he won’t like the answer. 

“A new friend!” Caboose says brightly, and sure enough Simmons does not like it. Simmons looks at the blow torch, the welding mask, then around at the various metal detritus. He sighs.

“Okay. I’ll help.”

Caboose leads him through the mess like every piece of twisted metal is a beloved family member, reaching out to touch each piece he can when he passes them, and Simmons feels something relax inside him. Caboose launches into an almost incomprehensible explanation of what he needs help with, Simmons nodding along and asking questions when he gets too lost. Eventually Caboose removes one piece of metal and reveals a mass of old fashioned computer parts and ribbon cables and Simmons’ face lights up. Words start spilling out of his mouth before he realizes what he’s saying, telling Caboose a story about the computer he’d had as a child. It had been old even then but Simmons had been captivated by the old technology, taking it apart and painstakingly putting it back together. Caboose makes interested noises and asks questions and before Simmons knows it he’s up to his elbows in computer components and trying to figure out how to install DOS on a modern targeting system. 

Simmons stops to get a drink of water and realizes he’s been down here for hours. He remembers his earlier musing on whether or not Washington looked after Caboose and can’t but wonder if what he’s doing is exactly the kind of thing that Wash probably should have stopped. 

Then he remembers why he came down here. He looks up at Caboose, frowning slightly, trying to imagine what he might say. No words come to him. Maybe he should just… wing it.

“Hey, Caboose?” 

Caboose’s head jerks up to look straight at him, his wide guileless eyes making something weak and pathetic inside of Simmons shrink back. 

“Yes?” Caboose says, sitting back on his heels and politely giving Simmons all of his attention.

“Can I talk to you about something?” Simmons ventures, hoping that Caboose will say no or interrupt with one of his famous non sequiturs. He certainly isn’t expecting his whole face to light up as he bounces to his feet and comes over to stand in front of Simmons.

“Yes! Simon! I love talking about things I would love to talk to you about things!” Simmons eyes Caboose, edging back a little because he seems to be vibrating with energy now and Simmons is very wary of hug attacks. 

“Um, okay, well--”

“Is it about Griff?” Caboose interrupts and Simmons’ brain makes a sound like brakes shrieking. He feels his already-pretty-high-but-managable anxiety shift and twist until it’s like flames licking up his skin from the inside and he just stares at Caboose. Caboose stares back. 

Simmons knows he should say something, should deny it maybe? He’s not sure what but he knows this, he knows standing here and staring and freaking out and saying nothing is bad. It’s so bad that he can’t think about anything other than how bad it is, which just prevents him from speaking for longer. 

_ Oh, god, _ he thinks suddenly,  _ Is this just my life now? Am I going to stand here and stare at Caboose and say nothing until I die?  _

Something--adrenaline or muscle memory or who knows--makes Simmons twitch and Caboose lets out a bark of a laugh that startles Simmons right out of his spiral.

“You blinked first! I win!” Caboose shouts, grinning widely, and Simmons groans. He sinks down until he’s squatting, his arms curling up around his head. 

“Why would it be about Grif?” he asks after a moment, his voice muffled and miserable.

“Umm,” Caboose says, his frown obvious in his voice, and Simmons can hear him moving around closer, like he’s bending over to try and look at Simmons’ face, “It’s just, um, usually when you talk it’s about Grif.”

He just says that, like it’s obvious, like he doesn’t understand why it would upset Simmons. Hell, Simmons can’t even blame him for that one. It shouldn’t upset him. It shouldn’t make him want to crawl into a cave and stay away from anyone who knows anything about him. It  _ shouldn’t  _ be so paralyzing, it’s just a fact about him and his life. He’s gay and in love with his best friend. It shouldn’t feel like the end of the world when someone else acknowledges that. 

“You can talk about something else,” Caboose says, his large hand falling on Simmons’ shoulder and making him jump. Simmons thinks about Carolina, shaking and falling apart but forcing the words out, telling someone she cares about the truth. He opens his mouth but all he can think about is a black hole inside his throat, sucking up every word he could say before he can force it out. 

Just like that, he knows he’s going to give up. He doesn’t want to, really, except that he does because all he wants right now is for this moment to be over. He wants to get away from this panic, this fire in his guts that’s telling him to  _ runrunrun _ . His heart sinks a little but relief washes over him in the moment he accepts his own cowardice. He’s not going to do it, but that means he doesn’t have to be afraid of it anymore. The fire is quenched with ice cold water. 

“No,” Simmons says, lifting his head, hoping his eyes don’t look as dead as they feel, “Nevermind. It’s not important.”

~

Simmons has gone AWOL.

Carolina feels unaccountably worried about it, because Simmons is an adult and they are not actually dating, are not actually fake dating either, and Simmons is plenty capable of taking care of himself. Except that he misses dinner and Caboose mentions seeing him earlier in the day but Carolina can’t get more information from him than that. 

She’d sent him a few messages, all of which had been ignored. Simmons had a right to his personal space, but after the emotional rollercoaster of yesterday she was a little… worried. Simmons hadn’t exactly promised to follow in her footsteps, but he hadn’t seemed as terrified of the idea as he had before. She thought he might have chosen someone, talked things out with them one on one, but then why the disappearing act? It was possible Caboose had been the candidate, and it was possible Simmons had successfully communicated to him the need for discretion, but… Something felt off about this situation.

After dinner Carolina finds herself walking outside, and when she looks up she’s under the tree she had found Simmons hiding under days ago. He’d looked so small and scared, looked on the outside how she felt on the inside, and her heart had melted. She’d wanted so badly in that moment to not be alone, and she knew Simmons must feel similarly. You don’t live like Simmons does and not crave companionship, no matter how he pushed it away and poisoned it. 

She looks around but this time she’s alone. Then, sighing, she turns around and heads to Red Base. There is one person who will absolutely know where Simmons is. 

Grif is in the rec room, the TV on and blasting a nature documentary of all things. He’s not even looking at the screen, though, sprawled on the couch with his head tipped back over the top, his eyes on the ceiling. His expression is so blank that Carolina can’t help but wonder if he’s actually asleep with his eyes open.

“Hey,” she says, trying not to look too surprised when Grif’s eyes immediately slide over to look at her. His reaction is so fast that she thinks he must have known she was there, must have been completely in the moment, and it’s a little disconcerting. He doesn’t return her greeting, just blinks slowly.

“Have you seen Simmons?” she asks, trying as hard as she can to sound bored, like it doesn’t actually matter. Grif’s face twists into an actual expression, and it’s surprising enough that Carolina is sure it shows on her face. There’s tension around his eyes and something like a grimace around his mouth. It takes him a moment to wipe the expression away and then turn towards the TV. 

“No,” he says to the TV and Carolina suppresses a huff of frustration. She thinks for a minute, knowing that asking again or asking more forcefully won’t get her anywhere. Then she thinks about that grimace and knows what she has to do. She walks into the room and sits down next to Grif. He sits up a little and looks over at her, alarmed.

“What are you doing? Aren’t you looking for Simmons?” he asks, his eyes darting around the room like he might pull Simmons out of a corner to get her out of his space. She just shrugs.

“I can’t find him. This looks interesting, anyways,” she jerks her chin towards the screen, where oblong fish with creepy W-shaped eyes are darting around in front of the camera. Grif looks at her incredulously. 

“No it doesn’t,” Grif says, making a face, and then Carolina notices the small flashing icon in the corner of the screen, a black square with a red circle inside it. Grif’s recording this. Grif’s recording a boring documentary that he has no interest in, and Simmons is hiding out somewhere. She doesn’t bother to hide her smirk. When she looks over at Grif he’s leaning back slightly, glancing dubiously at her. 

“You’re recording something you don’t want to watch?” she points out, her smirk widening when Grif’s expression sours. She can’t help but feel proud of herself for pulling so much expression out of him, even if she did it by annoying him. Grif shrugs one shoulder. 

“This shit is great to fall asleep to,” he says, but he won’t look over at Carolina. After a moment she realizes he must be  _ embarrassed _ . Her worry about Simmons goes right out the window, chased out by the glee of causing Grif discomfort. 

“Oh yeah, I bet,” she says, nodding and letting silence settle between them just long enough that Grif starts looking bored again. Then she speaks up.

“You know, this seems like something Simmons would like,” she says, smirking when Grif tenses beside her. He turns to look at her, glaring and crossing his arms over his chest. Classic defensive posture. 

“Look, is there something you wanted? Because as of this moment I would do anything to not spend any more time with you,” he says, grouchy and uncomfortable and Carolina’s loving it. She knows the shit between him and Simmons is split equally but she suspects that Grif is more aware of what’s going on than he lets on. She’s reasonably sure that he has the power to stop their painful state of limbo but chooses not to for whatever reason. Simmons at least is paralyzed by fear and cowardice. She thinks of sitting with him, hearing the terror in his voice as he related that he’d called Grif his friend for the first time. She knows she can’t pile all the blame for Simmons’ distress on Grif, but she kind of wants to. 

The smile drops off her face when she looks over at him and he meets her gaze passively. 

“You know where he is,” she says, not a question. Grif sighs and looks away. 

“He’s hiding in his room,” he admits quietly, “Playing Dwarf Fortress.” He looks over at her and then cuts his gaze away, like those words should mean something to her. Carolina looks at him blankly until he rolls his eyes.

“It’s a computer game. He always plays it when he’s…” Grif trails off but Carolina doesn’t need to hear it to know what he means.  _ Upset _ . Something did happen. 

“What happened?” she asks and something strange happens. Grif goes very still and then he grits his teeth. It’s like something snapped in him because when he looks over there is a very real flare of anger in his eyes. 

“How the hell should I know?” Grif says, low and dangerous, his arms uncrossing and hanging limply at his sides with his hands balled tightly into fists, “He’s  _ your  _ boyfriend, isn’t he?” 

Carolina frowns sharply and Grif winces, then he very carefully wipes himself of all emotion, the anger dimming as he focuses back on the TV. Even his fists uncurl and he folds his hands together over his stomach. Carolina scoffs and stands up, prepared to storm out and let Grif sit with what he’d just said, but something makes her pause and look back at the door. Grif hasn’t moved an inch but there’s something desperate and despondent in his eyes.

“He doesn’t have to be,” she says and doesn’t stay to watch his reaction.

~

Simmons doesn’t realize there’s someone else in the room until Carolina pulls out one of his earbuds and says something in his ear. He gasps and jerks away from the touch, turning wide eyes on her. For a moment he’s frozen there, staring at Carolina who looks just as surprised as he feels and he knows the moment he’s been dreading has come. He looks resolutely back at the screen, not bothering to put back the earbud Carolina had removed. He just needs to finish mining out this one section, then he can think about other things. 

“Simmons?” Carolina says but Simmons ignores her, “Come on, Simmons, talk to me. What happened?” He shakes his head once, leaning over the keyboard a little, like he’s afraid she might take it away from him. 

“Simmons?” she tries again and this time Simmons makes a little frustrated noise.

“I’m busy,” he says, but he knows his concentration is broken and he won’t be getting back that pleasant nothing feeling anytime soon. Just Carolina’s presence has interrupted him and brought him back to what he was trying not to think about. He’s let her down. He’s let himself down. He tried to tell someone the truth, tried to trust someone with his most precious secrets and he failed. 

Carolina sighs and sits on the edge of his bed, and Simmons glances at her just long enough to register her expression: concerned, resigned. She probably can already guess what happened. It’s not like he did anything he hasn’t done a million times before. 

Simmons pauses his game and removes his headphones, closing the laptop and setting it aside. He pulls his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around them, resting his forehead on his knees.

“Simmons,” she says after a long moment, her voice so kind and gentle that Simmons actually recoils from it. He doesn’t want her  _ pity _ . 

“Stop,” he says, shaking his head again, “Stop that. I went to go tell Caboose, to-to-to--” Simmons can’t get the words out, actually, and isn’t that mortifying? Even here he can’t do it. He fists his hands in his hair until the prick of pain helps him focus enough to grit out some words, any words, “ _ Come out  _ but I didn’t, I chickened out, and I don’t know if I can do any of this anymore so…” His words dry up then and he just holds onto his hair and focuses on breathing. He can’t look up at Carolina, can’t see that inevitable disappointment in her eyes. 

“Hey,” she says gently, reaching out to touch his hand where it’s still tugging on his hair. His tendons relax almost involuntarily and she pulls his hand away, “It’s okay. You can try again.” 

“You don’t  _ get it _ ,” Simmons grits out and yanks his hand away from hers, and then he’s up and away and pacing, as far away from her as he can get without leaving his room, “You don’t  _ get it _ .” 

Carolina is silent and Simmons risks a glance over at her. She looks surprised again, and a little frustrated. Simmons looks away. 

“So explain it to me,” she says, like it’s so simple, like everything is so simple to her. Resentment and jealousy wells up inside him and he knows this is what makes them different, this is why she’s over there and he’s over here. 

“I’m  _ not _ like you, Carolina,” he says, the words tearing out of him, the words he’s been holding back since they sat together under that tree. He knew it all along, knew Carolina was wrong to think they were similar at all, “I’m nothing like you. I can’t-- I’m  _ so scared _ and I  _ can’t  _ just… I can’t just give up what I have on the off chance that my friends might like the real me. I would rather be miserable and lie than be miserable and be honest.” And, oh god, his voice is wobbling and his eyes are burning but he can’t stop, “At least I can control the lie.” 

Simmons covers his face with his hands, knowing he can’t hold back the tears but desperately hoping he can hide them from Carolina. 

“Simmons,” she says and her annoyed, no-nonsense tone makes him startle and look up, “Come sit down.” He frowns and glances between her and the bed, then reluctantly comes over to sit on the very edge, tension in every line of his body as he wipes furiously at his eyes. 

“Simmons,” she says again, but this time he can’t look up at her because he can’t stop crying, “That’s fine. If you don’t want to come out to anyone,  _ that’s fine _ .” Simmons pauses but still doesn’t look up. After a moment, she keeps talking.

“What you do with your life is your business. I shouldn’t have pushed you so hard. I’m sorry. If you want to come out to somebody it should be because you want to, not because you’re afraid of me if you don’t.”

Simmons wilts a little, remembering that exact thought coming to him earlier in the day. 

“I’m not you, and I don’t know what your feelings are, you’re the only one who can judge what to do here. I just know… I know, for me, I weighed the options and made my choice. If your weights are different than mine, that’s fine. It’s  _ fine _ , Simmons,” she stresses, her hand coming down on his shoulder and he feels like a puppet with its’ strings cut under the weight of her hand. His shoulders shake with a sob and Carolina pulls him into a hug, pressing his face into her neck and Simmons feels a dam break inside him. 

A while later Simmons pulls away to grab a tissue from his bedside table and wipe his face, but Carolina doesn’t release his shoulder. 

“Simmons,” she says again and he looks up at her warily, “I meant everything I said. But… I do think it might do you some good to talk  _ some  _ things over. Especially… Well, Grif’s a different case, isn’t he?” Simmons doesn’t even have the energy to tense or to deny it. He just nods.

“I know, and I… I’m scared but I… I know I can’t keep going like this,” he admits quietly, his voice scratchy and rough, “I have to talk to Grif.” The words fall like a weight in the pit of his stomach, a truth he’s known all along but hasn’t been able to admit until this moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and sticking with me through my long hiatus! Can't say exactly when the next chapter will be up. 
> 
> Also, I've [set up a ko-fi for anyone who likes my stories](ko-fi.com/cyparissus) and would like to pass me a tip. (Note that that tips won't have any bearing on getting chapters up faster, I am only very grateful to anyone who thinks my work is worth it.)


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